Catch 22
by Jad fic
Summary: As if NEWTS weren't enough, Dumbledore's gone and had another one of his bright ideas. If all ends well, the Houses will be getting along in no time. Or according to Harry's correspondent, hailing the Apocalypse. OotP/HBP/DH disregaded.
1. Whose Bright Idea Was This, Anyway?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** All of the letters written by Harry will be aligned to the **LEFT**. All letters written by his correspondent will be aligned **CENTER**.

The plotbunny that resulted in this fic was born after reading _Lettered _by** pir8fancier**, who graciously gave her consent for me to use it as inspiration. I wrote this as a bit of fun in-between writing the heavily detailed and ultimately torturous chapters of _Bad Faith_. It's light, funny, a bit romantic, full of smut, and not much else. Enjoy!

: : :

_Catch-22_  
-noun [_kach-twen-tee-too_]  
1. a frustrating situation in which one is trapped by contradictory regulations or conditions.  
2. any illogical or paradoxical problem or situation; dilemma.

Chapter One

Whose Bright Idea Was This, Anyway?

: : :

**September, 1998**

_Am I the only one that thinks this is a stupid idea and a complete waste of time?_

'No one will know who your correspondent is, not even your Head of House,' McGonagall is explaining. 'Each seventh-year student has been randomly assigned a number and paired with a student from another House with a corresponding number. You will pass your letters to your Head of House, who will similarly pass them on to the appropriate staff member for delivery.'

'Professor?' Dean Thomas asks, raising his hand. 'I'm sorry, but what exactly is the point of this?'

'The point, Mr Thomas, is to attempt to enforce unity between students of different Houses. The Headmaster believes that in these dark times, it is necessary to forget our differences and learn to appreciate our strengths, and I must concede.'

'But, Professor, why do the letters have to be anonymous?' Parvati says.

'Anonymity removes any possibility of prejudice and provides each student with, shall we say, a blank sheet of parchment. You may know nothing about your correspondent or you may know a lot-but in your letters you will be speaking with, as far as you know, a complete stranger. With the absence of any preordained bias you may have acquired, good _or_ bad, you will find it much easier to communicate freely. A chance to "be yourselves" without having to worry about trivial details such as House, class, gender or heritage.

'You all have already been assigned a number, which you are forbidden to disclose to anyone, be they Housemates or even siblings. You are required to communicate with your correspondent no less than once a fortnight. You may write whatever you wish; the staff will not be reading the letters, or grading you by their content. They are completely confidential. And as the point is for you to form a bond with another student, I recommend that you be honest; just write as you would to anyone else your age.'

Lavender raises her hand and McGonagall nods to her. 'Can we write _more_ than once a fortnight?'

'You may write several times a day, if you wish, Miss Brown,' McGonagall tells her. 'Just be sure that you do not sign your letters. You may leave your notes in an envelope, on the inside flap of which you should write your personal number, and drop them off at my office at any time to be passed along.'

Harry looks down at his letter. The handwriting is not familiar, but Harry sometimes has difficulty even telling Ron's handwriting from Seamus' or Dean's, and the only reason he recognises Hermione's is due to copying six years' worth of History of Magic notes before exams.

'At first, you and your correspondent will be forbidden from arranging encounters, or otherwise revealing yourselves to each other or anyone else,' McGonagall continues. 'However, starting at the holidays and up until the end of the year, if both you and your correspondent mutually agree to meet, inform your Heads of House and we will provide you with the necessary information.

Harry rubs his forehead. This all sounds extremely complicated, and if fifth year was any indication, N.E.W.T.s are bound to be occupying most-if not all-of Harry's time. They haven't been back for a week and already he has a mountain of Charms, Potions and History homework to finish, not to mention Quidditch practice three nights a week.

'You have ten minutes before class is dismissed,' McGonagall adds after answering some other questions about the 'letter project'. 'I suggest you use that time to respond to your letters.'

There is a great amount of parchment-shuffling and quill-scratching as the class follows McGonagall's advice. Harry stares down at his letter again. With a furtive glance to his left, he notices that Ron's letter is almost a full paragraph-certainly enough to prompt a response. He can't see Hermione's letter, because she has already begun a reply, and it is nearly half a foot long already.

_Am I the only one that thinks this is a stupid idea and a complete waste of time?_

_What am I supposed to say to that? _Harry thinks. It's their very first letter and already his correspondent is annoying him. Though he supposes his correspondent got the shafted end of the broomstick; having to write the first letter was probably even more frustrating. Feeling slightly less irate with this in mind, Harry bends his head low over a fresh sheet of parchment and begins to write.

_I don't think so. I know my homework queue certainly agrees with you._

He pauses, quill poised over the parchment. He suddenly realises that he doesn't even know if his correspondent is a boy or girl. It is even harder than talking to a complete stranger; a stranger you can see, and can tell whether they are male or female, and you can judge their reactions and expressions and tone of voice. What do you say to someone who you know so little about?

A drop of ink falls from his quill tip to the paper, leaving a small splotch. This is going to be more difficult than he thought. Well, there is _one_ thing he knows about the person... the one and possibly only thing they have in common.

_So, I guess this means you're #22, too. I guess that doesn't really mean anything, except that we'll be seeing a lot of each other's scrawling for the next couple of months._

Hmm. It isn't the most elaborate of letters, but it will do. He's—sort of—prompted a conversation, if you can possibly even have a conversation about the number 22.

'Time's up,' McGonagall says just as Harry rolls up his answer. 'Pass your letters forward. On a final note, I daresay I hardly need describe the sort of punishment any student or students found trying to sabotage the project will receive. Consider yourselves warned.

'Be sure to place your replies in the envelopes provided, with your numbers on the _inside_, Mr Longbottom,' she reprimands as Neville begins to write on the outside of his envelope.

: : :

Harry does not receive an answer for almost ten days; it's been so long he's almost forgotten they have to keep these correspondent letters going. He is deeply engrossed in his History of Magic essay when Hedwig lands on top of Hermione's stack of books with a letter in her beak.

'Oh, Harry, your letter is here.'

'What?' Harry says, looking up. He has ink smudged on his fingers and really hates everything to do with Chimeras and the illegal trafficking of their bodily fluids. 'What letter?'

Hermione points at the letter still in Hedwig's beak. 'McGonagall sends all our correspondent letters in red envelopes, so that we know not to open them unless they're for us.'

'Huh? Oh.' Harry finally gives up on the stupid essay, grateful for an excuse to take a break. 'Yeah, I forgot, I haven't gotten one in a while. Here.' He holds out his arm and Hedwig flutters to him. Harry takes the letter from her and she hoots happily at him. 'Thanks, Hedwig.'

'I really think this whole project is a wonderful idea, don't you?' Hermione asks him.

'Er,' says Harry. 'I guess. A bit annoying, though.'

Hermione shrugs. 'It's not that bad. Only once every two weeks, right? Doesn't take that long to write a letter.'

'How are yours going?' Harry asks.

She smiles at him. 'Rather well, actually. I can't tell if it's a boy or a girl, but they felt the same way you did about the idea until we'd exchanged a few letters... we usually write every day, now.'

'Every day?' Harry asks, surprised. 'We haven't even had the project for two weeks yet!'

'Yes, well,' Hermione says, shrugging. 'McGonagall said we can write as often as we like, didn't she?'

Harry shakes his head, wondering where in the world Hermione manages to fit everything she does into the day and still have time to knit elf hats. Wiping the ink off his hands, he sits back and unfolds his letter:

_It depends on how you look at it. 22 can translate to quite a lot. It may not tell me anything about you, but maybe you'll learn something about me. For one, we know it's a composite number. It's used as a Master Builder number in Numerology. It also happens to be the atomic number for titanium. Don't ask me why I know any of that. Six years of school and what to show for it?_

_Here's one that makes a little more sense: Catch-22. 'No escape from plight because of conflicting dependences.' For example, this situation I am currently in, where I have to waste five precious minutes every other week when I could be studying for NEWTs to write some random prat a paragraph of complete bollocks in order to avoid detention, which would also result in studying time lost._

Funny, Harry thinks, that his correspondent seems to have the same opinion as he does about this project. Still, just because Hermione writes every day, it doesn't mean _they_ have to. It only takes about five minutes to write a letter, and five minutes every week or so is easy enough a sacrifice. And right now Harry likes the idea of taking a five minute break from his stupid essay, so he pulls out a fresh piece of parchment to reply:

_You're right. I did learn something about you. Are you always so pessimistic? _

_A friend of mine thinks this project's a good idea, and the more I think about it, the more I agree with her. Five precious minutes you could spend studying? I'd like to think of it as five minutes to take a break from banging my head against the wall, trying to figure out __why_ _we need to know anything about the history of chimera blood being sold on the black market, since chimeras have been extinct for the past 50 years anyway. _

_What else would you do with these five minutes besides study, anyway? _

: : :

**October, 1998**

_I'm not pessimistic, I'm realistic. They told us to be honest, so fine, I'm being honest. I still think this is a total waste of time._

_I suppose it could be worse, though. I could have been assigned a complete dunce or some overly hormonal girl for a correspondent, and you seem to be neither. As far as the importance of chimera blood goes, if you try actually __reading_ _the text you might notice that it is a prime ingredient for the making of a Philosopher's Stone. The chimera might be defunct, but there's bound to be a healthy amount of their remains still circulating the market with that kind of demand. It certainly sheds light on why the bloody things went extinct, doesn't it?_

_What would I do with a free five minutes? I suppose I should tell you something mundane, like play Exploding Snap or go for a refreshing walk around the lake, but if I'm going to follow these absurd directions about being straightforward in these letters, that would be an outright lie._

_Honestly? Probably wank. You?_

Harry has to read this letter twice over. He can't believe that someone would consider putting something like this on parchment, much less send it off to a complete stranger.

But that's the point, isn't it, Harry thinks, because if the teachers really _aren't_ reading these, and they don't even have to know who they've been writing to, it shouldn't be embarrassing, should it?

Harry shakes his head and pulls out a fresh piece of parchment to reply. Normally he would wait until the next Transfiguration class, where McGonagall has begun allocating five minutes at the end of the period for people to finish up their answers, but he feels a genuine desire to reply now. One thing is for sure: his correspondent, whoever he is, is definitely a _he_ now, which makes it a little easier for Harry to think of things to write. And his correspondent seems to know that, likewise, the recipient is a boy; after all, there are some things you just don't say to a girl, even anonymously.

_I'm strongly resisting the urge to say I appreciate your honesty. I mean, really, what if I __was_ _an overly hormonal girl? _

_I probably would do something 'mundane', as you like to call it, though certainly not a walk by the lake, the giant squid creeps me the hell out. But I play a damn good game of Exploding Snap. And if that's the only other thing you'd do with your free time besides write letters full of complete bollocks to random prats, then I have to say, I think this little project will do you some good._

_Actually, if I had five minutes to myself, I'd probably spend it taking a nap under the beech tree on the grounds. Before it gets too cold, anyway. I like the breeze._

: : :

The reply comes much quicker this time; the very next day, Harry wakes up to find Hedwig sitting on the edge of his bed with a red envelope in her beak. He yawns and rubs his eyes while groping for his glasses, which he pushes on over his nose, then lies back to open it:

_If you __were_ _an overly hormonal girl, considering the soonest we could meet is the holidays, I'd say come Christmas I wouldn't need to be wanking._

_Do me some good? I'm seventeen and living in forced confinement with four other blokes. What would do me some good is to get laid. Don't even try to pretend you're some innocent minded little saint. I don't care how angelic you might look on the outside, the internal thought process for every male our age is the same. Sex first, then everything else. Your denial is unbecoming._

_You like the breeze, eh? Well, looks like I just learned something else about you. How long have you been flying?_

Whoops, Harry thinks, and he frowns at the letter. Then he supposes there isn't any harm in letting his correspondent know he flies—or even that he plays Quidditch, for that matter. There are three whole teams he could be on, after all, and at least three quarters of the players are male and seventh-years. It hardly narrows down his identity. And he's learnt something, too; this guy obviously flies as well, and from the way he recognises the relation to the breeze, he probably enjoys it just as much as Harry does. They do have something in common, after all.

_Since I came to Hogwarts. I never owned a broom before coming here. You?_

Harry sits up and re-reads this line several times. He doesn't want to suggest that he wasn't raised by wizards; not that it matters, but the whole point of the letters is to remove outside biases, and heritage is always an issue with wizarding families. Once he decides the sentence is vague enough to not imply either way, he considers the rest of the letter. He isn't sure if he qualifies as thinking of sex first, then everything else, although since last year the possibilities have certainly began to occupy more than their fair share of his daydreams. But Harry has a myriad of other things he is keeping busy with, so he hasn't really bothered to stop and think about it before.

_I'm not denying anything. I never said I didn't think about sex, I said I could think of better things to occupy my time than wanking off. There's a difference. And I think it'd probably be a good idea for you to find yourself a hormonal girl, before you get obsessive. If I run into any, I'll pass them along._

_: : :_

_Since I was six. My father couldn't stand me being inside the house when I was younger. The broom gave him ample reason to kick me outside for hours at a time until I turned eleven, at which point he could send me away here. Not that I minded, mind you. Getting me back __inside_ _was usually the hard part._

_Pass them along? Instead of keep them for yourself? How am I supposed to interpret that? I suppose you mean because you're 'too good' to settle for any old hormonal girl, but to a complete stranger (which, might I remind you, I am) it could also easily be translated as 'I don't fly on that side of the pitch, help yourself.' Not that I'm one to talk._

Harry tries, without success, to reply to this with more than one line:

_And how am __I_ _supposed to interpret __that__?_

The reply comes that same day. Hedwig flutters down to him during dinner with the letter in her beak.

_However you like. It doesn't really matter either way, does it? It's almost like these letters are a means of confession. I could tell you things like yes, I find blokes as equally attractive as the average skirt and yes, I spend an unhealthy amount of time wondering what it would be like to investigate the nether regions of both, and what could you do? Get angry? Offended? Embarrassed, even just for my sake? You don't even know who I am, so why bother? I'm certainly not buggered. What you think of my sexual orientation matters about as much to me as memorising the names of all the goblin generals from the 1600s—which, may I add, really __is_ _a load of useless information._

_Speaking of confessions and useless information, I'm going to tell you something that would probably surprise you if you knew who I was. My favourite colour is red._

_: : :_

_I suppose you're right, it doesn't really matter. I haven't given too much thought to it, to be honest. I mean, I find girls attractive and all, but bugger, they can be annoying, at least compared with the blokes I know, anyway. And I know that doesn't bother some guys, but I can't really picture myself with a girl if I can't even carry on a decent conversation without it ending in tears or hysterics._

_Red, huh? I guess that's one thing we don't have in common. Red looks terrible on me. But why would that surprise me?_

_I don't think I have anything worth confessing about. I'm not that interesting of a person, really._

_: : :_

_You're a bit slow on the uptake, aren't you? I expected you to at least narrow down my House from that bit of information. Probably for the better if you didn't. Wouldn't want to ruin the fun of anonymity. Tears and hysterics? What the hell kind of women are you seeing? I want a list, too, so I can make sure to avoid them._

_Do you really look that bad in red? I'd say I'd be the judge, but there we go with the anonymity issue again. Whose brilliant idea was this whole mess?_

_Oh, come on, __everyone_ _has something worth confessing. If you can't think of anything, I've got plenty of suggestions. Like, for instance, who do you fancy? Anyone? Have you managed to weed your way into some hormonal girl's (or bloke's) knickers yet? Better yet, humour me this: what do you think about behind the drapes at night? And don't play stupid, you know __exactly_ _what I mean._

_: : :_

_What does someone's colour preference have to do with their House? And you're right, at this point I'm probably happier writing to a random prat. If I start putting a face to these letters, I probably wouldn't be able to finish writing them. As for the hysterical women, it was just one, and she's already left school, but I'll let you know if I run into another one._

_Dumbledore's, I'd imagine. He seems to have this crazy idea that Houses will get along if this works. I mean, come on, could you ever imagine Slytherin and Gryffindor getting along?_

_I fancy a couple of people, just on looks alone, though. Either of the Patil sisters would do, but I think Padma's the slightly saner of the two, considering half the things out of Parvati's mouth are giggles (is it just me, or do they do it on purpose because they __know_ _how annoying it is?). But I'll be damned if I can tell them apart when they're not wearing House colours. _

_To be honest, though, I think I prefer blondes. That Greengrass girl doesn't have much of a personality but I've almost convinced myself that it'd be worth the bother. And no, I haven't slept with anyone, if you must know. Haven't been actively trying to, either; there's too much drama involved and I have enough of that in my life already. Et tu?_

_I don't need to play stupid, I do know what you mean, and you're fooling yourself if you think I'm going to answer that. _

_: : :_

**November, 1998**

_'Et tu?' Was that a hint about your ancestral background or just a spectacularly bad attempt at flourish in your writing? _

_I must agree with you, though. I imagine the day that a Slytherin and a Gryffindor can pass one another without insult or bloodshed would mark the approach of the Apocalypse._

_Padma is not sane, and trust me, I speak from personal experience. Do not let her womanly qualities fool you. I don't care how nice her rack is; she's not worth the trouble. Anyone that spends the majority of their holidays making colour-coded charts for exams that are ten ages away cannot be labelled 'sane' in any sense of the word. _

_Greengrass, huh? And here I was thinking you didn't have any taste. Take my word for it when I say that despite the lack of intelligent conversation, it most definitely __would_ _be worth it, if she weren't currently dating Wayne Hopkins—whom I know only by reputation, but I suspect that if you so much as give Daphne a once-over he'd probably tie you to a goal post, hook your tongue to the end of his broom, and proceed to fly across the pitch until he'd turned you inside out. Girl like that, can't really blame him. Terry Boot's still in the hospital wing, from what I've heard._

_I'm honestly not that picky when it comes to looks—or gender, for that matter. I tend to simply want what (or who) I can't have, which unfortunately is the exact opposite of productive in the dating department._

_If you're this reserved about everything in writing, I hate to think what you're like in person. Would you feel more comfortable if I went first?_

_: : :_

_A female friend of mine makes colour-coded charts for exams, maybe it's just a chick thing. But then I tend to make colour-coded charts for upcoming matches, so I guess I can't really talk. Nice imagery, but have you considered the possibility that I __am_ _Hopkins?_

_What you __think_ _you can't have or __know_ _you can't have? Because if it's the former, that doesn't make you counter-productive, it makes you a closet sadist. And I'm not that reserved, I just don't think it's proper to divulge those sorts of things in polite conversation. But if talking about it'll keep you from getting obsessed, then knock yourself out._

Harry stares at his letter and idly sucks on the end of his quill. He really wants to add more, and he probably can if he tries hard enough, but the subject leaves him feeling uncomfortable. He doesn't know a lot about sex, nor does he pretend to—he tends to distract himself thoroughly with classes and Quidditch practice and the occasional DA meeting when he has time—not to mention, you know, the Dark Lord and all—and has successfully avoided thinking about it too thoroughly. Sure, there probably isn't a single seventh-year bloke who doesn't indulge themselves with the occasional wank, but very few of them would ever admit to it, much less go into detail about the act or what they think about when they do it.

He sighs and looks up, and immediately stiffens. Draco Malfoy is across the way at the Slytherin table, eyeing Harry and probably thinking of the best way to sabotage him without getting caught—tomorrow is the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Harry isn't worried because he has never failed to beat the pasty prat to the Snitch, but everyone knows Slytherins are dirty fighters and Harry isn't stupid enough to let his guard down so soon before the match.

Malfoy notices him looking and smirks. Harry rolls his eyes and, with a quick sweep of the Hall to make sure none of the professors are watching, graciously gives him the finger.

Apocalypse averted, at least for today.

: : :

_The purpose of these letters isn't polite conversation. The purpose is inter-House unity. What better way to accomplish that than trying to meet each other's sexual needs? Sex always brings people together. And if there's one person I'm sure you're not, it's that uptight idiot. He couldn't spell Quidditch if it kicked him in the arse, and it's hardly privileged information that he's hitting __that_ _every night, my virginal friend._

_As for thinking or knowing, it's like what you said, these aren't the sorts of things you post on the boards or ask potential partners at random to see if they're into it. I mean, most people don't even know what __they_ _want. Do __you_ _know what turns you on? Have you even thought about it? And I mean __really_ _thought about. Most people don't. They just assume they're the same as everyone else. I mean sure, some fundamentals are always the same—depending on your preference, there's always something to be said for an appealing partner, but whether you're lifting shirts or skirts doesn't really matter. _

_For instance, I like to really pay attention to people's bodies; how they move, how fit they are, the colour of their skin or the shape of their hips or how flexible they are. You should try it, sometime. I think you'd be surprised how much you notice about what you think you like now and what you'll realise after paying more attention to detail. That's the key thing, really—attention to detail. Little things that people overlook or don't bother with. Foreplay, for instance, is totally underrated. I'm sick and tired of all these bullshit rumours about blokes liking to skip it. It's my favourite part._

_When I fantasise, it rarely begins when I'm preparing for bed. My time is far too valuable to be spent dozing off unnecessarily. Usually, it's somewhere public, like sitting in the library, or in the Great Hall, or even a classroom. I'll be sitting there, innocently trying to concentrate on one thing or another, and __surprise__, there's the hormones, finding any excuse to turn my mind to much more devious things. Like when a particularly nice arse will walk by, or as someone accidentally brushes against me in a corridor, or that brunette across the way starts sucking on the end of his quill, like it's a perfectly innocent and acceptable thing to do in public. If only he knew what I was thinking... It's unfair, really. Items that encourage public sucking of any sort should be banned from an institution housing teenagers._

_See, I told you. I've spent far too much time thinking about this. But on a plus side, I know exactly what I like. What I __want__. The only hard part, I suppose, is trying to get it across when the time comes._

Harry makes it through the Quidditch match virtually untouched, and is first out of the showers. Hedwig has left this latest reply on his locker during the game; he finishes reading and, grinning to himself, tucks it away in the pocket of his jeans just as Ron steps out of the showers and into the locker room. Harry stops grinning to avoid any awkward questions, but Ron is too engrossed with the euphoria of winning to notice anything anyway.

'That game _rocked_,' Ron says, towelling his hair. 'Did you _see_ the look on Malfoy's face when Peakes got that Bludger off? Hah!'

Harry grins again. He sits on the bench to de-fog his glasses with his shirt before putting it on. It is always very humid in the showers after any game, especially those against Slytherin, which tend to leave players sorer and dirtier than usual.

'I hope Ginny's okay,' Harry says. Mere seconds before he had gotten the Snitch, she was in possession of the Quaffle and had taken a Bludger to the throat and been rushed off to the hospital wing.

Ron shrugs. 'Eh, she'll be fine,' he says. 'Fred and George have done worse, and she still always managed to hammer them for it. Crabbe'll be saying hello to her Bat-Bogey Hex the moment she's up, you mark my words.'

'Good lord, Potter, are you trying to blind us?' sneers a nasty voice. Draco Malfoy steps out of the showers with a towel tied around his waist. Blaise Zabini follows him out, nursing a nasty cut on his forearm. 'Put some fucking clothes on, will you?'

Harry has always thought sharing showers between teams is a bad idea, especially since Slytherins are known for being sore losers. However, he is pleased to notice—blurry though the prat may be sans glasses—that Malfoy has a large and probably painful bruise on his ribs from where Peakes had nailed him with a Bludger, giving Harry a clear path to the Snitch. It had been an easy win after that.

Fortunately, Harry is not ashamed of his appearance and Malfoy's remark does not trouble him, mostly because he certainly looks better than that pale bastard does without his robes on. He smirks at Malfoy. 'You're hardly one to talk, pasty.'

Ron snickers, tossing his towel in the laundry bin. 'Seriously, Malfoy, if anyone here has the potential to blind, it's your pale arse.'

'Must suck to be you, then, seeing as you can't afford glasses,' Malfoy says, unperturbed, and Blaise laughs.

Ron stiffens a little but doesn't rise; Harry is continually impressed by Ron's growing self-control, but he's hardly going to let Malfoy insult his friends and get away with it.

'Are you sure Peakes didn't get you in the arse, too?' Harry asks, pushing his glasses on. 'You seem a bit butt hurt, Malfoy. Can't be a winner all the time, you know.'

'Or in your case, any time,' Ron finishes for him, and laughs.

Malfoy flushes slightly, but recovers quickly. 'You both seem pretty keen on my arse,' he sneers. 'Fucking tossers.' And then he turns his back to them to open his locker on the other side of the room.

'Yeah, so keen that I'd hardly be able to spot the Snitch if you weren't so shit at Seeking yourself,' Harry says sarcastically.

Malfoy is still facing his locker, but Harry smirks when he notices a change in Malfoy's posture; he stands up a little straighter, though this is a subtle adjustment as both of them are shorter than most of the other players—and certainly thinner, as is preferred in good Seekers. Quidditch, however, is not easy on the body and there isn't a senior player that doesn't have the muscle tone to show for it... _I like to really pay attention to people's bodies... _and a fair share of scars to go with it—_how they move—_Malfoy shifts his weight from one leg to the other—_the shape of their hips—_the lines in his back tighten—_you'd be surprised how much you notice—_the frame of his shoulders becomes rigid—_key thing, really—_and come to think of it, even if he is a pasty bastard—_attention to detail—_Malfoy really doesn't have a bad arse, as far as blokes go...

_What the hell is going on in my head?_

'Harry?'

Harry blinks and looks up. Ron is standing beside him; he raises his eyebrows. Harry realises that Malfoy and Zabini are now both fully dressed and ignoring them, heads bent close in whispered conversation.

'You all right, mate?' Ron asks warily. 'You looked—did you just have one of your—' Ron lowers his voice, '—you know, _visions?_'

'Huh? Er, no,' Harry says. 'Just remembered we still have to finish that Potions essay by tomorrow, is all.' He stands and hoists his Firebolt over his shoulder. 'Come on, let's go. It's bloody boiling in here.'

: : :


	2. Correspondent Catastrophe

Chapter Two  
Correspondent Catastrophe

: : :

_Okay, I take it back, you're __already_ _obsessive. And of course I've thought about it. I just haven't spent enough of my free time looking up skirts (or shirts) to write a bloody book on it._

_Have you considered just __telling_ _someone what you want? I mean, what's the point of indulging in any of it if you're not getting what you want from it? And how can you know what you like just from thinking about it, without having tried it? It might not be all your imagination jacks it up to be. _

_I'm beginning to think sex in general is overrated._

: : :

_Pot calling the cauldron black? I ask you to tell me what __you_ _like and get told off for demanding details, and then you're telling me that's what __I_ _need to be doing. How can you think sex is overrated? You're still a virgin, for fuck's sakes. What kind of poor masturbation are you subjecting yourself to? Nevermind, don't answer that. And I'll have you know my creativity on the matter is quite well developed. How can I know? I __know__, and I can prove it. In fact, I plan to, because damned if I'm going to be responsible for your continued sexual retardation._

_And on that note, a word of caution: don't open my next letter until you're alone._

: : :

His next letter arrives barely two hours after the first. Harry considers opening it during History of Magic, his last class before dinner, but Ron is trying to play hangman while Professor Binns drones away, and Harry decides it is probably for the best if he waits until after supper.

Later, after abandoning the common room for an early night, Harry is very happy he follows his correspondent's advice. The letter is much longer than any he has received so far—probably longer than all of the previous ones put together. He closes his bed hangings securely before lying on his back on top of the duvet, head propped up on a few pillows and holding his wand alight so he can read the narrow script that has become so familiar over the past several weeks.

_Just for the record, I haven't had sex with anyone yet. In fact, I haven't done __any_ _of this with anyone. I mean, I'd like to, but as you so eloquently put it, it's not something you tend to divulge in polite conversation. So what's a guy to do? Write to random prats about it, I suppose. And I do hope you're reading this alone like I advised, otherwise there are bound to be a lot of awkward questions. I have no idea why I'm telling you any of these details. Maybe my father's right and it's just that I really don't have any shame. I don't see that as a bad quality, either way._

_You want to know how I know what I like without having done it? I __have_ _done it, that's how. I do everything I can to myself and use my imagination to fill in the blanks. Works like a charm. You seem to be lacking the ability to conjure up your own details, so I'm going to give you a little help with that. I want you to read this and think about it being done to you. I want you to __do_ _it to yourself. Do it, and I promise you I'll not just have proven my point, but probably given your sorry arse the best wank you've ever had._

Harry stares at the letter. Is he kidding? He _has_ to be kidding, right?

_I like things to mount up, and for that, you have to start out simple, like by taking off your shirt-but not in a rush. Don't just pull it off. I like how my fingertips feel through the fabric as they work down my chest, dislodging button after button, occasionally brushing bare skin. I like the feeling of the fabric being pulled away, and letting my fingers ghost over my chest._

Oh, my God, he _isn't_ kidding. Harry is well aware of the blush rushing up his neck and cheeks and he manages to re-read the paragraph, his curiosity hidden under the guise of disbelief.

_I'm bloody ticklish, I'll have you know. Even the lightest touch makes me twitch. It drives me up the fucking wall._

Harry has no idea why, but this tiny detail alone serves to turn him on tremendously.

And really, what can it hurt? It's not like this guy knows who he is, and Harry certainly doesn't need to feel reserved about it, not here in the privacy of his dorm, alone and blissfully unaware of the writer's identity. He can pretend it is anyone he wants...

Oh, hell, why is he even _considering_ this? He has to be mad. Absolutely mad.

_I like to lay my hand over my chest, palm down, slowly and firmly working my way down, running my fingers along my abdomen. When I found out you flew, I assumed you played for one of the House teams. I'll let you in on another thing about me: so do I. And because of that, I know you're not some limp blob or weedy stick of a bloke. I know how good it feels to run your fingers along your chest and that hard stomach, following the lines along your hips towards your groin. Letting your fingers dip below the belt, brushing and teasing along the skin there. Nobody touches you there, not even in innocent passing—that skin is always covered, always hidden, and touching it is like someone setting your blood on fire, making you feel that ache. I know I bloody well am._

_Fuck, do you have any idea how hard it is to do this one-handed while the other hand is giving a commentary on it? I deserve a fucking award for showing such monumental skill in multi-tasking._

Whoever he is, he is definitely right about one thing; Quidditch has made a substantial change in Harry's body from the skinny boy living in a cupboard seven years past, though Harry has hardly given it notice before now. He re-reads the paragraph several times and mimics the movements described—slow, deliberate movements, feather-light touches, running his hands down the length of his frame... he isn't ticklish, but the touches still feel so... so incredibly, incredibly _good_. Why in the _hell _has he never bothered to do this before?

And had this bloke _really_ written this out while he was... doing it to himself? Harry bites his bottom lip, willing himself to take it slow, and continues reading.

_I'm guessing you're lying down. Word of advice: try this standing up. Find yourself a good, sturdy wall and go prop yourself against it. I'm completely serious. Go, right now, and get your arse against the first wall you come to. Don't you dare keep reading until you do. You'll thank me later._

Harry, at this point, is well over what he is allowing himself to get into. But still, a wall? Outside of the privacy of his bed? What if someone walks in? As if expecting such trepidation, the letter is a step ahead of him:

_Don't worry about someone finding you. Trust me, if anyone finds you mid-apex like this, you'll __definitely_ _be thanking me later._

There really is no excuse for the lack of concern Harry feels at pulling himself out of bed, and propping himself up against the stone wall beside the window. In plain view of the dormitory door, no less. _I __cannot_ _believe I'm doing this..._

_Now plant your feet apart, and keep your shoulders flat against the wall... because your knees will not keep you up by themselves, trust me. Keep using your hands to run along your sides and up your chest, palms and fingers ghosting over every angle... run your fingertips along your collarbone, along the top of your shoulders... run your hand up the side of your neck, into your hair; tangle your fingers in there, pulling just hard enough to tilt your head back... letting your mouth fall open so that gasp can get out... this is the part where you fill in the audio, by the way. And don't even try to play that reserved shit again, either, or you may as well quit now. If it makes you feel any better, my Housemates can probably hear me from the common room. I fucking hope they can, for the amount of effort I'm putting into this._

It is almost disquieting, how accurate the descriptions are, like how the bastard _knows_ pulling his hair causes him to gasp... Harry grins despite himself, wondering how many times this bloke has done this to have it this well memorised.

_Keep that hand in your hair, tilting your head back, like if I was holding you there. Holding you there up against the wall, breathing up and down your neck, while I slide my hand back down your chest again, fingers slipping under the pant line, tracing the skin just below the belt. I'm feathering kisses up and down your throat as I unbuckle your trousers, pushing the zip aside. _

_Do you feel that? The flat of my palm resting against you? I can't even imagine how fucking hard you probably are at this point. Don't rush this—the best part of a good wank is taking all the time you want, sod the rest of the world. All I want you to concentrate on is your body; how your hand is sliding you out of your clothes, lingering everywhere it tingles, exposing you for the whole fucking dorm to see if they had enough luck to walk in right now._

_I want you to think about when you kiss someone, when their tongue is sliding across yours, how hot and wet and fucking good it feels, how it leaves you dizzy and tanked and practically in orbit. Now I want you to think about it where your hand is, moving up and down your length like it's a fucking lollipop, because you can be damned sure if I had any idea where you were, I'd be on my knees like a randy harlot and you'd be begging me for more._

Harry lets out a quiet, compulsory moan as the effects of the letter, imagination and his ministrations converge, tightening the knots that have formed in his abdomen, screaming for release. Oh, hell, it has been _far _too long since he last indulged himself in this, and he can't remember it ever being quite so intense.

Wanks are always restricted to private showers or, if you're lucky, a quick one behind the bed curtains when everyone else is out. Standing up in your dorm room is out of the question, and moaning like a whore is certainly not an option, but bloody fucking hell, he can't help himself. The more he reads, the harder it is to keep it quiet, and sod it all—it feels so amazingly good that at the moment, he doesn't give a damn who hears him. Let them all walk in, right now, and they would get one hell of a show, because damned if he wouldn't carry on.

_The only thing that could make this better is if I was there to hear you when you came. I'm so tempted to tell you my name just so I know you'll be crying it out, wherever the hell you are._

_Do you believe me now?_

: : :

Harry wakes up late the next morning and dresses quickly, grabbing his bag before heading down to breakfast. As he approaches the Gryffindor table, he suddenly wishes he had decided to skip the meal; the curious looks and smirks from his fellow dorm mates are highly suggestive.

'Morning, Harry,' Ron says cheerily. He scoots over to make room between him and Hermione—who is flipping through the _Daily Prophet—_for Harry to sit.

'Er,' Harry says, and takes the seat with a wary look. 'Morning.'

'Long night?' Hermione asks mildly, eyes cast innocently on her paper.

Seamus, Dean, and Ron all erupt in a mass amount of sniggering; the milk Seamus is drinking comes out his nose. Ron grins broadly and immerses himself in his porridge. Neville turns slightly pink, looks away and pokes his toast.

'I'm sorry,' Harry says, a touch of impatience in his tone, 'did I miss something?'

'We apparently did,' Seamus says, still snorting.

'Didn't know you had it in you, Harry,' Dean says with a large grin, and then reaches behind Ron and gives Harry a hard pat on the back.

'So, Harry, who's the bird?' Ron asks.

'What? Who?' Harry asks. _Bird?_ Oh, God, _no..._ they didn't... they _couldn't_ have...

'Oh, honestly, Harry,' Hermione says, finally growing impatient and putting her _Prophet_ down. 'It's no use playing coy. The entire _common room_ could hear you last night.'

'She had to send the first- and second-years to bed early,' Dean informs him cheerfully.

_Oh, my God. _Harry suddenly feels the urge to drown himself in Ron's porridge.

'You might want to get that looked at, mate,' Seamus says, indicating Harry's severe blush.

'Oh, come on, leave the bloke alone,' Ron reprimands before turning to Harry. 'So, who is it?' he asks, nudging Harry in the ribs. 'Is she hot?'

'Is she in our year?' asks Dean.

'Is it Ginny?' asks Seamus.

Ron and Dean both look positively alarmed at this suggestion, the idea that it could have been their little sister/ex-girlfriend participating in last night's fiasco obviously disconcerting.

Harry shakes his head fervently. 'No! No, no, it's not Ginny—it's _not_!' he protests at the suggestive eyebrow Ron is raising. '_Ask_ her—I mean no, don't,' Harry adds, horrified that he had proposed such a thing.

'You're all being horrible,' Hermione informs them. 'Harry gets little enough privacy as it is without you lot sticking your noses in.'

'Privacy?' asks Seamus. 'Even the bloody _Fat Lady_ could hear him!'

'Sticking our noses in?' Ron demands. 'If Harry wants privacy with this sort of thing he shouldn't be broadcasting it to the rest of the Tower!'

'Still,' Hermione says firmly, dismissing them. 'If Harry wants to keep who she is to himself, he's perfectly entitled to.'

Harry feels a huge surge of appreciation for Hermione that he can hardly begin to express in words. He eats quickly, using the excuse of needing to finish a paper ('Yeah, right, you were too _busy_ last night,' Ron sniggers) to dash off to the library and quickly write a letter to drop off at McGonagall's office on the way to Charms.

_You perverted sonofabitch. I hope that letter earned you a spot in the deepest circle of Hell. _

_Yes, I believe you. Point proven. I believe you. I believe you. I believe you. And now my entire House thinks there was an orgy in my dormitory last night._

_Don't you __ever_ _do that to me again, you complete bastard. _

: : :

_Ha ha. Told you I know what I want. And what you want, it would seem. And if that's all it takes to get a spot in Hell, they're probably overbooked. I wonder how many other secret correspondents are using this system as an outlet for pent-up sexual frustration. What do you think? We can't be the only ones, or else I've been badly misinformed._

_Are you sure you don't want me to do that again? __Ever__?_

: : :

_I don't know. I don't know what I want. I want to feel good, I suppose, and that felt fucking good. If we're the only ones doing this, I'm a lot sadder than I thought._

_Yes, I'm sure I never want you to do it again. __Ever__. And no, I'm not being honest with you. Does that answer your question?_

: : :

**December, 1998**

_Are you always this coherent after getting off?_

_Two weeks 'til holidays._

: : :

_Do __you_ _want to do it again?_

_About bloody time, too. I swear NEWTs are going to be the end of all of my sanity. I'm staying here this year to catch up on schoolwork. Are you going home?_

: : :

_Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to? I figured you'd be over your reservations by now. _

_I'm supposed to. Mother will have kittens if I don't. Father probably won't care. But I don't really have any reason to stay. NEWTs aren't that bad. Trick is to remember that the better you do on your exams, the easier it'll be when you're out of here. Do you know what you're doing after Hogwarts?_

_Don't your parents want to see you?_

: : :

_I guess I don't want to form any expectations about someone I can't even put a name to, is all._

_My family, if you can call them that, would all have aneurysms if I showed my face six months earlier than they were expecting. In fact, considering I'm of age now, I'll be damned if I ever set foot on their doorstep again. So no, I'm staying. I'd tell you to say hello to your mum for me, but then she'd probably want some sort of explanation, which brings us back to that anonymity issue again. No, I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I'm rather dreading it, come to think about it._

_: : :_

_Oh, is that all I need, a name? You can put a name to me if that'll help. Call me—Socrates._

_Funny how our identity problems keep rearing their ugly heads, isn't it? I'd rather not mention you anyway; I think my mother always wanted more children, or something, because she takes it upon herself to spoil all of my friends rotten. If she knew you existed she'd be buying you sweets and things and probably insisting that I bring you around for Christmas. No offence, but if I brought home a boyfriend my father would kill us both._

_You seem to have some serious domestic issues. I don't think I've ever run into anyone as eager to get away from his folks as you. What's the deal? Are they Muggles?_

: : :

_When did we become friends? I mean, I don't mind. It's just, I didn't think you could apply that to someone you've never even met. Can you?_

_Does it matter? I don't want to talk about my family. I don't even consider them family. Never have, really._

_Your mum sounds nice. Socrates, huh? I don't think so. You're definitely more of a Steve, or something._

: : :

_Well, what else am I going to call you? My owl-order rent boy? That would go down spectacularly with my father. Honestly. I'm rolling my eyes, can you tell? I don't see why we wouldn't be, you probably know more about me than any of my friends do. Well, sexually speaking, anyway. Not sure if that counts, but whatever. __I_ _think it counts._

_She is nice. Makes some damn good ambrosia too. I'd owl you some if I didn't know I'm too selfish not to eat it all. Father's a bit of an arse, but I think he means well. He probably wouldn't kill us if I took you home. Maybe just me._

_STEVE? What in the name of Merlin have I done to you to deserve such an ugly, plebeian name as Steve? __Steve__. I don't think I've ever been so insulted in my life. If I knew who you were, I would hunt you down and kill you until you were sorry. Steve. Fuck you, you bastard. Don't think I don't know you're laughing. _

_To answer your earlier question: yes, I want to do it again. In fact, I already have, I just hadn't told you about it. I want to tell you about it. And then I want you to tell me about what it does to you. Because you never did, you know, and I think that's a bit unfair. I don't like one-sided relationships, even anonymous ones. _

_Do you know what you want yet?_

: : :

_I'm guessing you've gone home. They told me I can still send these things to you, though I'm not sure how long it'll take before you get it. _

_Okay, I lied. You're definitely not a Steve. Not a Socrates either, though, as much as I hate to pop your bubble. So, what does that make us, exactly? Friends with benefits? I think I can live with that._

_I thought about it. I don't know what to make of any of it, but I do know I want to feel that again. I can't give you a better answer than that. And I suppose it isn't fair, but I never asked for it, if you remember. I don't remember a lot of detail. I know I kept wondering what it would have been like to have someone actually __doing_ _it to me, rather than just thinking about it. I remember that it felt fucking incredible, and all I could think about for days afterwards was you. I don't even know what you look like and I still dream about you. _

_How did you put it? It drove me up the fucking wall. Quite literally. I had the bruises to show for it._

_Is it possible to miss someone that's never been there in the first place? I mean, all it's been is letters back and forth, but I think there was some little comfort in knowing you were at least in the same place as me. Now I have no idea where you are, and I think I miss you. Maybe it's just the quiet getting to me; Hogwarts is so sober over the holidays._

_Merry Christmas. _

: : :

_Merry Christmas. Good haul this year? I think my father's under the delusion that the older I get, the less I like being doted upon. Suppose that's why we've got mums, though._

_You're so bloody sincere it's almost enough to make me sick. That's a good quality, by the way. I just don't handle that sort of thing well. A normal person would probably just say 'Thank you, I miss you too', but I guess that's __my_ _reservation._

_Then you know what I wonder about all the time. I thought talking it off with you would alleviate it somewhat; I thought wrong. Now I'm thinking about it even more. All of the time. And I'm thinking about __you__. It's driving me insane._

_Holidays are half over, don't fret. It's unbecoming. I'm only about 600 miles or so south of you, anyway. A good owl can do that in a few hours. _

_I'm looking forward to causing you some more bruises. I should probably feel sorry for the wall._

: : :

_Fretting is unbecoming, but getting off to anonymous blokes isn't? Your logic seems a bit flawed. And I'm looking forward to abusing the wall. _

_You know, since holidays are over, our anonymity issues aren't beyond our control anymore. I mean, I dunno if we should, or even if I want to, but the option's there. Have you thought about it?_

: : :

**January, 1998**

_Yes. I've been thinking about it since October, actually. _

_Still thinking. Every time I get convinced that I could live with myself, though, some other doubt appears. Do you really want to know who I am? Put a face and a name to all of this? I might disgust you. I could be someone you loathe. Think about every person in school that you couldn't stand me turning out to be, and imagine it; what would you do?_

_Have you ever ridden the Hogwarts Express during the holidays? Considering your remarks about home I'll assume not. You're missing out. It's way more beautiful when it's not full of screaming first-years and there's snow all over everything. Good letter-writing atmosphere for sure. _

_My logic isn't flawed, it's just biased. Was thinking about the wall today. Don't want to get boring, now, do we? Might try something different. How's a desk sound to you?_

: : :

_October? Your obsession is unhealthy, I hope you know that._

_I have thought about that. But the way I figure it, after all of this, there's no way you could disgust me. I couldn't loathe you if I wanted to. Anyway, I don't think you'll turn out to be anything like that. You don't sound like someone I'd dislike._

_No, I've never ridden the Express except at the start and end of the year. Sounds beautiful, though. I wish I could be there with you._

_Desk might prove a little tricky—wait, desk as in the dorms or desk as in a classroom? _

: : :

_You __are_ _the obsession, you dork. You'd probably only be unhealthy in really large doses._

_I hate to break it to you, but what I sound like on paper and what I sound like in person are two completely different things. I can express myself better on paper. When I talk I tend to just say whatever comes to mind, and most people seem to find it offensive. Maybe I'm just talking to the wrong people._

_I wish you were here, too. I think I'd have less reservations about meeting you if we did it somewhere like this. Nowhere for me to run on the train, at least. That last owl of yours got here quick, so we must nearly be there by now. I should probably go change._

_Well, that depends; how much of an exhibitionist are you? And do you really want your entire House to think you've got another orgy going?_

: : :

_I think you're talking to the wrong people. Because the way you describe yourself in person is how I'd describe you on paper. You sound like you write whatever comes to mind, and there's been plenty of times it's been offensive. I mean, you mentioned a wank in your third letter, for crying out loud. You then proceeded to send me a book's-worth of parchment that could be considered intellectual pornography. Most people would call that pretty offensive. _

_But I'm still writing to you, aren't I?_

_I'm not an exhibitionist and have no intention of treating my Housemates to any more fantastical orgies. They think I've got some mystery girl I keep sneaking into the dorms whenever I'm thinking about you. And I think about you a lot. _

_I've made up my mind, you know. About seeing you. So I guess now it's just up to you. What are you worried about?_

: : :

_Yes, you are, and I have to say it's been a bloody mystery to me this entire time why you have. Intellectual pornography, huh? Didn't know there was such a thing. I'll take that as a compliment._

_Ooh, is that so? I think I could turn you into an exhibitionist with very little effort. Do you want me to prove that, too? You know I'll do it._

_So, it's all up to me? No pressure, then. What am I worried about? I'm worried that for the past five months I've been pouring my heart out not to a total stranger, but to someone I know. A total stranger I could come face to face with. But there's still two or three blokes that you could very well turn out to be that I wouldn't be able to cope with. And it's all up to me, so it'd be my own bloody fault if that happened, right?_

_You know, what's retarded is I think now that I'm back, I miss you more than I did over the holidays. I take back what I said before: you are unhealthy, even in small doses. _

_If it makes you feel any better, though, I really hope you don't have a cure._

'_Bwah_!'

Draco is given very little warning as a large, dark something erupts from the shadows of the room and leaps on top of him. The bedsprings of his four-poster creak in complaint, and Draco drops the letter he has just finished on the floor in surprise. Someone is sitting on his back, knees under his armpits, effectively pinning him down on his stomach. The someone then snickers and tousles Draco's carefully brushed hair, turning it into a tangle of white-blonde locks.

'Fuck, Zabini, get a hobby!'

'Nice to see you back in such a friendly mood.' Blaise leans down, his head beside Draco's ear, and says in his sultry voice, 'And what better hobby than molesting _you_, mio Dragone?'

Over the past six and a half years, Blaise slipping into the room unnoticed like a predatory cat with intent to pounce is something the occupants of the dormitory have come to expect. Today, it is Blaise's way of saying _'Hey, I missed you_'_,_ and Draco appreciates it. However, Draco must maintain to his wildy boisterous mate that ruffling of The Hair is simply Not On.

'You touch my hair again, Zabini, and I will castrate you with a broken Butterbeer bottle and feed it to you.'

'I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby.'

'You're in one of your moods, aren't you?' Draco murmurs, and attempts to heave himself up. Blaise shifts his weight to keep Draco pinned.

'I am _always_ in the mood,' Blaise says, feigning offence. 'What kind of a teenager do you take me for?'

'A bastard?' Draco offers. 'Will you get off? I can't feel my legs.'

'I'm quite comfortable, actually,' Blaise purrs.

'You're something, all right, but "comfortable" isn't the word I'd use.' Draco pushes himself up again and manages to turn on his side, then tries to shrug Blaise onto the floor.

Blaise, being the evil, conniving, Slytherin bastard he is, takes advantage of Draco's exposed ribs and tickles him.

'_Fuck! _Bloody—_bugger—_off!'

Small chaos ensues and Draco ends up, once again, squashed beneath his attacker. Blaise smirks triumphantly and ruffles his hair again, and Draco glowers at him from under his bangs. 'I am going to kill you in your sleep,' Draco says, although this threat would hold more merit if Blaise weren't so stalwart.

'You know, considering your namesake, you're awfully easy to subdue,' Blaise says, lewd intentions lacing his words; he winks suggestively.

Draco raises an eyebrow. 'I'll scream rape.'

Blaise makes a _pffft_ noise. 'You'll be screaming _something_, signore, but it sure as hell won't be ra—'

Draco uses this momentary distraction to jam his elbow hard into Blaise's groin area. Blaise yelps and rolls off him and the bed, and collapses on the floor in a disorganised heap of robes and long limbs. Slytherins are dirty, dirty fighters. Draco, muttering to himself, tries to comb his hair with his fingers, and doesn't notice Blaise's head tilt to the side to read something on the floor until it is too late.

Blaise sits up and raises an eyebrow. 'Oh, you _have_ been keeping secrets.'

Snarling, Draco snatches the letter and shoves it under his pillow. 'Piss off,' he snaps.

'You're not getting rid of me that easily,' Blaise purrs. He sits up straighter, on his knees, and drapes himself across the depression of Draco's lower back, resting his head on folded arms and closing his eyes. It is a familiar position, for Blaise is one of only a few that seem to have figured out that Draco finds it easier to talk when he doesn't have to look someone in the eye. 'So, who's the bloke?'

Draco mumbles a long string of obscenities in which Blaise manages to pick up a few keywords: letters, Dumbledore, disaster.

'Ah,' says Blaise, understanding. 'Correspondent catastrophe?'

Bleakly, Draco nods.

'Who are you worried about?'

'What?' Draco almost looks back; halfway, he changes his mind and buries his face back into his pillow.

'You wrote that there's two or three you couldn't cope with. Who?'

Draco thinks about this. His muffled voice says through the pillow, 'Isn't it obvious?'

Blaise takes a moment to consider everyone in their year that Draco dislikes. This turns out to be a very, very long list, so it takes several more moments for him to narrow it down. 'Weasley?' he offers. 'Longbottom?'

'Both.'

There is a long, uncomfortable pause. Blaise doesn't have to ask who the third is, he already knows the answer; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-Around-Draco.

'Do you really think it's him?' he asks instead.

'No,' Draco says truthfully, and removes his head from the pillow. 'Hell, I'm _sure_ it isn't. He's not this kind of person. No, it's somebody else.'

'So then why are you worried about it?'

Draco shrugs and stuffs his head back into the pillow again. In a small voice struggling through the cotton, Blaise hears him say, 'Because what if it was?'

'You paranoid idiot,' Blaise says, sitting up and thumping the back of the white-blonde head with a spare pillow. 'Anyway, I think you should—you know, meet him, whoever he is. I'm glad I met mine.'

Draco rolls over so he can see Blaise. 'Who was it?'

Blaise grins at him. 'I think I'll spare you another aneurysm.'

'How considerate of you.'

Slowly, Blaise's smirk softens into a thoughtful sort of look, which he directs at Draco, who raises an eyebrow. 'Did you really mean all of that?' Blaise asks.

Draco sighs and rolls back over. 'Don't you have someone else to go molest?'

'Ooh, Malfoy,' Blaise coos, and he stands and drops the spare pillow on Draco's head. 'You've got it _bad_.'

: : :


	3. In The Long, Sad History of Bad Ideas

**Summary**: Harry makes a discovery over the holidays, Blaise has some very good aim, Draco plays a game of elimination, Harry plays a Very Dirty Trick, oh, and a snog.

: : :

Chapter Three

The Worst Idea In The Long, Sad History Of Bad Ideas

: : :

**January, 1998** _(one week after the holidays)_

'He's a SLYTHERIN, Hermione!'

'He's also a human being, Ron!'

'I don't care—he's just _using_ you, can't you see that?'

'_Using me? _And for _what_, might I ask?'

'For—to—to get to Harry!'

'Oi,' Harry says firmly, opening his eyes. He hasn't said anything since the row between his best friends began, some twenty minutes ago. 'Don't drag me into this.'

'She's fraternising with a Slytherin!' Ron screams at him, freckles practically leaping off his face.

'He was my _correspondent!'_ Hermione snaps defensively. 'That was the whole point of the project! To make us see past prejudices! What has he ever done to _you? _You don't even _know him_, Ron! You're being completely unreasonable!'

_'I'm_ being unreasonable? I'm not the one having "study sessions" with a snake in library!'

'It's not like that!'

'Yeah, is that what he's telling you?'

'Augh!' Hermione shrieks, and Harry winces. This row has gotten very out of hand, but there isn't much Harry can do without getting caught in the crossfire. Hermione looks about three seconds from throttling Ron, who seems to have noticed, because he backs up towards the door. 'If you are going to insist on being an irrational, jealous bastard you can just leave! Go on!' she snaps again, as he hesitates by the door. 'Get out!'

'I'm not—that's—jealousy's got nothing to—and this is _my_-'

'OUT!'

Harry winces again as the door slams closed, leaving him and Hermione alone in the boys' dormitories. They came in here two hours ago to finish their Potions essays, as it's Saturday afternoon and Neville, Dean and Seamus are elsewhere. Hermione got a letter mid-session and Ron demanded to know why she was still getting letters if she'd met her correspondent. Since the holidays are over, technically so is the project, but Harry and Hermione are not the only people still exchanging letters; the whole thing has been an enormous success according to Dumbledore, and Harry has to admit that he's noticed more inter-House friendships outside of classes since the holidays ended.

Of course, then Ron had demanded to know _who_ it was—and the moment the word 'Zabini' was out of Hermione's mouth, he'd promptly hit the roof.

'God!' Hermione collapses on Harry's bed, which he is lying across on his stomach. 'Why does he _always—_as if it's—oh, sorry, Harry,' she says and lowers her voice as she notices Harry is still there. 'Thank you. I mean, for being mature about this.'

She told Harry about her correspondent's identity over the holidays, as they had both remained behind this year while Ron had gone home to The Burrow. Harry did not get to meet Blaise, and he isn't entirely sure he would want to, for despite a lack of open hostility from the Slytherin, he is still a _Slytherin_ and therefore best avoided, in Harry's opinion.

He took the news very well in his opinion, especially considering that finding out Blaise is _Hermione's _correspondent has all but revealed who his own is. He hasn't mentioned it to Hermione, and is also putting off writing a reply to the last letter he received, several days ago. Knowing who it is makes it much harder to reply; what if he already know who _Harry_ is, and are just trying to hoodwink him into spilling his guts, so they can use it to humiliate him later? It wouldn't be below him, Harry thinks, to set up that kind of a sham.

While Hermione begins organising her notes, Harry puts his essay aside and pulls out the letter, which is stuffed in the bottom of his bag.

_I'm worried that for the past five months I've been pouring my heart out not to a total stranger, but to someone I know._

_You're telling me_, Harry thinks, sighing. He _wants_ to believe the letter is sincere; a part of him _does_ believe it, really, but every time he begins a reply, that shadow of a doubt returns, and he can't bring himself to finish it.

_You know, what's retarded is I think now that I'm back, I miss you more than I did over the holidays. _

It is silly to think Draco Malfoy is even capable of writing something like that, Harry thinks, much less _meaning_ it. The most rational explanation is that Malfoy's having him on. Malfoy could easily know who he is—he always has a way of knowing things he shouldn't—and he would leap at the chance to hurt Harry in the worst possible way he could. No, these letters are all phooey... they _have _to be...

_If it makes you feel any better, though, I really hope you don't have a cure._

...don't they?

'Harry?' Harry looks up from his letter and sees Hermione watching him with raised eyebrows. 'You two are still writing, then?'

'Er,' Harry says, and folds the letter in half. 'Yeah, for now.'

'For now?' she asks. When Harry doesn't answer, she continues, 'Do you know who it is?'

Harry sighs and rubs his eyes behind his glasses. 'I dunno. I mean, I think I do. I'm pretty sure, actually. I just... it doesn't make any sense.'

Hermione puts her notes aside and stretches out beside him, and props her chin up on her hands with a look of mingled concern and curiosity. 'What doesn't?'

'It's just so weird, you know?' Harry rubs at his eye again, gives up, and just takes his glasses off. 'You think you know someone, for _years_, even... I just can't imagine them being the same person, if you get my meaning.'

'I think so.' Not for the first time, Harry feels fortunate to have a friend like Hermione; Ron may be his best mate in the world, but Ron also—as Hermione likes to put it—has the emotional range of a teaspoon, particularly when it comes to empathy. 'Who do you think...' Hermione trails off as Harry's face contracts, and makes a thoughtful _hmm_ noise. 'That bad?' she asks.

Harry lets out a small groan and buries his face in the duvet.

'Oh, come on,' she prods. 'Out with it.'

Harry grunts into the sheets.

'Is it Malfoy?'

Harry's entire body stiffens. Not for the first time, he also feels annoyed to have a friend like Hermione; Ron may be less understanding about certain things, but sometimes that's a good attribute. Hermione is sometimes too clever for her own good. She makes the _hmm_ noise again, only this one sounds very smug. 'Well,' she says conversationally, 'I must say, it's a bit of a dodgy coincidence, but probably for the better.'

'A bit dodgy?' Harry picks up his head and squints at her. '_A bit dodgy?_ What are the odds that out of—how many seventh-years?—_I'd_ end up with _Malfoy_, of all people?'

'Harry, you can't possibly think Malfoy _rigged_ the project—'

'Why can't I? This is like the perfect way for him to get to me, and to use whatever I say in those letters to cause trouble!'

'And you're telling me that _he_ hasn't said anything in his letters that you could use against him?' Harry opens his mouth to retort, then gapes for a moment while he considers this, then shuts it. 'Exactly, Harry,' she continues. 'Besides, he _couldn't_ have rigged the project, anyway. Dumbledore used a Fortuitus Charm when assigning students to their correspondent numbers.'

'Hermione, look, not all of us have _Chuck Full of Charms_ memorised—'

'It's a very popular lottery charm, Harry. They use it on all sorts of official sweepstakes and contests to ensure no one can tamper with the results, which are randomly decided with magic.'

Harry gives her a look. 'I would have thought even _you_ by now would agree that coincidence and magic tend to go hand-in-hand, Hermione. Are you telling me that someone could Confound the _Goblet of Fire_ into thinking I was seventeen, but Malfoy couldn't somehow manage to get me as his correspondent?'

'I just think it's highly unlikely that Malfoy would go through the effort to pull something like that off,' she says, shrugging. 'Especially when there's no guarantee that you'd tell him anything useful, or even write at all...' She pauses, and looks at him sideways. '_Have_ you told him anything?'

'Nothing _important_,' Harry says defensively. 'It would kind of give away who I am, if I had.'

'I suppose,' Hermione says. 'But then why are you so worried about it?'

'Because I...' _think that I've sort of fallen for him?_ Who the hell is he kidding? Harry frowns. 'It's nothing, don't worry about it.'

Hermione takes the hint from his tone that he is not going to offer any more detail than that. 'Assuming he _hasn't_ rigged the project,' she continues instead, 'do you think he knows it's you? Does he know _you_ know who _he_ is?'

'No,' Harry says truthfully. 'I haven't even let on that I've figured out what House he's in.'

'Then I think you should keep writing to him.' Hermione picks her notes back up and begins separating them into two piles, one for each of them. 'I mean, the worst that can happen is that he finds out who you are and stops writing, or we find out he rigged the project and he gets expelled. At least keep playing along, and you never know, you might be surprised what you learn about him. Like, did you know Blaise can speak fluent French, Italian, _and _Japanese? His mother's moved them all over the world since he was a child; they only finally settled in London so he could attend school. She spends each school year while he's here in some far-off country. This spring she's going to Tibet, and—'

Hermione continues to rattle on about Tibetan wizards that embrace monastic lifestyles and how they're some of the last sorcerers in the world that still study Old Magic, and Harry's mind begins to wander, pondering what to do about Malfoy. He doesn't really want to stop writing—he does look forward to every letter he gets—but the apprehension that accompanies the anticipation is reaching an uncomfortable level. He finally decides that if he is going to keep writing, he is going to keep writing what he really thinks and feels (it wouldn't sit well with him to do otherwise), but he's not going to let on that he knows it's Malfoy... not yet, anyway.

Maybe Hermione is right; maybe he just needs to give Malfoy a chance. The worst that could happen is that Draco could find out who he is and then... well, hopefully they could avoid any Apocalypses. Rolling off the bed, Harry props himself up against the wall on the floor and, after a lot of consideration, finally writes his reply.

_It __was_ _a compliment. I look forward to your letters more than I look forward to Quidditch practice, and trust me when I say that's quite a feat._

_I don't doubt that you could; please don't. I get enough funny looks as it is._

_I guess I understand what you mean. What if you turned out to be someone I knew really well? Or at least, __thought_ _that I knew really well? That would be a bit strange. Who are you worried I'll be? I mean, I've already decided, so who __you_ _are isn't an issue. Tell me who you don't want to meet, and if I'm that person, we don't have to meet. Simple as that._

Harry pauses his quill over the parchment, hesitating. _If I'm going to keep writing... it's going to be what I really think and feel... _Taking a deep breath, Harry finishes with:

_You know what's on my mind most of the time? That I want to kiss you. I've been meaning to tell you that for a while, but I could never find the right time. So, here it is. I really, really want to kiss you. I think about kissing you every night. And I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me, however pathetic that may be. Thank you. _

: : :

'Oi, Granger, I hear matted hair is in this year. Perhaps we could sell some of yours; how much d'you reckon that rat's nest is worth?'

Harry gives Hermione a look as they cross the courtyard. She shrugs and ignores the comment. At her side, Ron mutters something nasty under his breath, but Hermione links her arm with his by way of reassurance and keeps walking.

Draco is not deterred. Striding along behind them with his usual gang, he smirks at their backs. 'Maybe enough for a romantic dinner for you and your Weasel boyfriend, Merlin knows he can't afford a set of decent robes, much less a glass of water at any respectable restaurant.' Pansy lets out a shriek of laughter while Crabbe and Goyle guffaw behind them.

Hermione rolls her eyes and hooks Harry's elbow as well as he attempts to turn around. 'Leave it,' she warns, pulling them both along. Harry wonders briefly how someone as small as Hermione can haul both him and Ron away, Ron especially, for he is practically foaming at the mouth. '_Ignore them_, Ron. They just want a reaction.'

'And I want to give it to them,' Ron snarls, 'and so does Harry. Come on, Hermione, there's only—' he looks back and counts, '—six of them. And if Harry can duel You-Know-Who, he can take the six of _them_, especially with my help!'

'Leave it,' Hermione repeats, still dragging him along.

''Course,' the sneering voice behind them continues, 'even if he _could_ afford to, he probably wouldn't take a filthy Mudblood out in public anyway—'

At the use of the curse, Harry and Ron stop simultaneously this time; sensing defeat, Hermione drops both their arms, knowing that if they work together it will be impossible to hold onto them at this point. Harry whirls around half a second before Ron does, wand raised—and blinks. Malfoy is drawing his own wand when a snowball connects hard with the back of his neck, making him stumble forward. He lands on his palms and knees at Harry's feet, and about twenty feet back Harry can now see Blaise, a wicked-looking smirk on his face that vanishes just as the other Slytherins turn around to see who the perpetrator is.

'Zabini, you idiot!' Pansy screams at him, rushing to Draco's side and helping him to his feet. 'You can't aim for fucking shit!'

'Maybe if you'd get your fat arse out of the way, I'd get a better shot,' Blaise retorts.

Pansy snarls but turns away from him and begins brushing the snow off Draco, who is flushed and snarling and has snow sticking in his perfect hair, while Crabbe and Goyle belatedly take their wands out and train them on Harry and Ron. Blaise looks up at them, glances briefly at Hermione, and winks.

And then it hits Harry: Blaise doesn't have bad aim, because he didn't miss.

Smirking down at Malfoy, Harry tucks his wand back into his robes. 'Come on,' he says to Ron, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder for emphasis. 'Hermione's right. It's not worth it.'

By the time they've finished Herbology, eaten dinner and made their way back to the common room, Harry's reply is waiting for him. After losing yet another chess match to Ron, who moves on to play Dean, Harry finds a chair in a more deserted corner of the room and reads:

_It's not that simple, though, don't you see? If I told you who I was afraid of meeting, and you turn out to be that person, then what? You say, 'Yeah, I'm one of those, so we won't meet.' Like after that we could just continue writing as if nothing had changed. I couldn't keep this up if I knew you were one of the people I couldn't come to grips with. I don't have enough willpower for something like that. I'm sorry if you can't understand that, but it's not going to happen._

_You're welcome. I hope I get to kiss you. I'm quite good with my tongue, if I may say so myself. And I don't think it's pathetic. Present company excluded, I don't think I can recall anyone ever saying something flattering about me. Well, besides Mother, but that's another thing mums are there for, I guess. _

Harry frowns at the letter. It has taken several days for Draco to reply to him, and now he knows why; Malfoy isn't as stupid as Harry and his friends like to pretend he is, and he's getting worried. Harry knows he's 'one of those people' that Draco wouldn't be able to come to grips with. He also knows now that Hermione is right; Draco can't have rigged the project, because there is no way in all seven hells that Draco would ever admit something like that to Harry. No matter what the circumstances.

He feels a sudden surge of indignation. After all, he's in the same hard spot Malfoy is. They're both worried that the person they've been sharing such intimate details with will end up being one another, but unlike Malfoy, Harry is willing to accept it. He dislikes Draco a lot from the way he's treated his friends, and the way his father is, and how he takes every opportunity he can to hurt someone else, but Harry can't deny that he likes him as well; likes him for the way he says what's on his mind, shameful or otherwise, and likes that he talks to Harry about normal things like sex and girls and Quidditch without worrying about the war or whether or not Hermione's still writing letters to Viktor Krum and Blaise Zabini. He really, really likes that Draco doesn't talk to him in these letters like he's some coddled, overindulged hero.

_I wouldn't know. My mother hasn't been in my life since I can remember. There, you learned something else about me. Maybe I'm helping to confirm that I'm one of those horrible people you don't want me to be. I'm sorry if I do, but I'm tired of being careful of what I say to you. Making sure not to mention my friends, or what classes I'm taking, or where I sleep at night. I want to talk freely. I love talking to you, and I hate holding things back. I think it's stupid. I don't know your name or your voice, I don't even know what colour your eyes are. _

This isn't all strictly true, of course; he does think this is stupid, he does love talking to him, he does want to talk freely; but he also knows his name. He knows that steely gaze so well he can spot it in a frenzied crowd. He knows his voice so familiarly that he can hear it whisper across a noisy feast in the Great Hall.

And he knows his favourite colour.

_I finally realised why red being your favourite colour might come as a shock to someone who knew you. Too much time to myself over the holidays to think, I guess. And you know what? It just goes to show that this project __was_ _a good idea. Because I can tell you now, a week ago I wouldn't have thought it possible for someone like you to be sorted into Slytherin. It's a shame that every bloke on your House team is a seventh-year, otherwise this would have been too easy. But there's one I can safely rule out, which narrows you down to four. _

_Eenie, meenie, minie, moe._

: : :

_It took you that long? Am I allowed to know who you ruled out? I'm pretty sure I can figure out which on my own, though. I would have been more than happy to tell you what colour eyes I have, but as your detective skills seem to be developing, that would probably be a bad idea. And did you really think anyone in Hufflepuff or Gryffindor would be perverted enough to send you intellectual porn in an anonymous letter? In fact, I have to say I'd be surprised if anyone in those Houses would even read it. No, I'm not saying I think you're in Ravenclaw, either, but I've been proved wrong before. To be honest, I don't think your vocabulary is good enough to qualify you as a Ravenclaw. _

_Gryffindor and Hufflepuff qualities are too similar for me to definitely pick a pool; I'd have sworn that no self-respecting Hufflepuff would ever have the ability to do something like wank off to another bloke's letter, but you didn't see what Hopkins was caught doing with Greengrass down here just before the holidays. Unless you were lying and you __are_ _Hopkins, which I think I could handle, even if he is a pompous little git._

_What colour are __your_ _eyes?_

: : :

_Green. _

_That should narrow your pool of seventh-year blokes down quite a bit. Six down, four to go. So we're even. _

_Smith, Finnigan, Longbottom, and Potter. One Hufflepuff and three Gryffindors._

_Are you still worried?_

: : :

**February, 1998**

_Considering two of my three have green eyes? Yes. I'm still bloody terrified. You've ruled out the worst, though, so I feel marginally better._

: : :

_Of the four possibilities, I have to say they're all wonderful people. What could possibly be so terrible that you couldn't stand confronting them? None of them would make a mockery of something like this. So what is it? Because you're a Slytherin? Worried that I'm some righteous little Gryffindor and fraternising with me will bring on Armageddon?_

_Talk to me, dammit. Clamming up won't prevent the inevitable. At the very least you could try to enjoy the fact that we're still mostly anonymous. You still have a promise to keep concerning a desk._

: : :

_Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the desk._

_You messed up, you know. Finnigan's always going on about his bloody mam at mealtimes. You grew up without a mother? That narrows it down to three. Leave it to my luck to have the only three green-eyed, motherless bastards left to choose from. And you all play fucking Quidditch, too. I still can't believe Longbottom was allowed on the team, even as a reserve. _

_With this much information I should have had you down, but no, fate loves to fuck with my head. Are you enjoying this? Do you think it's funny, imagining me beating my head against something because I'm getting more and more terrified that the next accidental fact I learn about you will make me regret every five minutes I spent on letters over the past five months?_

: : :

_You messed up, too. I didn't want to tell you, but since you insist on getting hysterical about it..._

_Zabini didn't go home for the holidays. I realise that you could have lied about leaving, but considering the reason he stayed was because he decided to meet his correspondent, I guess that rules him out for good. And you know what else? Nott's a motherless bastard, too. Do you know what that means?_

_You're one of my worst three. There's no way out of it, unless you're actually not in Slytherin. I was clinging to the hope you'd be Blaise for a while, he's never been that bad as far as your lot go, but so much for that. At least you've got a 1:3 chance of not getting one of your worst. No matter what I think or do, you're one of mine._

_And do you know what else? I still stand by what I said before. I still want to meet you. I still want to talk to you. I still know there's no way I'd ever be able to hate you, no matter who you turned out to be. This isn't right and you know it. I don't like one-sided relationships either. Fucking grow a pair, will you?_

: : :

_1:2, actually. I went investigating today. What do you know? Longbottom's favourite colour is red. _

_Funny how all those little facts were harmless at the time, huh? Fuck you, you bastard. And I mean that this time. So I'm one of your worst three. Then why are we even playing this stupid game anymore? You want me to grow a pair? Yeah, okay. Seeing as this can only end in disaster, might as well go out with a bang. You win. I'll meet you. I still owe you something about a desk anyway, don't I?_

_Tomorrow night. Charms classroom, 9 o'clock._

: : :

Not for the first time, Harry wonders if what he is doing is wrong. Not for the first time, he thinks this is a stupid thing to wonder, because it so very clearly _is_.

He did, of course, ask Hermione for help with the potion. They've been brewing it for weeks for NEWT-level Potions project, and he does not trust his own skills at potions to attempt it alone. She agreed, albeit grudgingly, after a considerable amount of begging and pleading on his part, and possibly even a little blackmail about when he distracted Ron to cover for her, when her little liaison with Terry Boot last year nearly wormed its way into the Gryffindor common room.

Getting the crucial ingredient was easy enough for Harry; the last Quidditch game was Gryffindor against Hufflepuff, and he was able to nick a few hairs from the locker room afterwards. Even the robes were not difficult to acquire; Harry had learnt once again how useful having a faithful house-elf on your side is, as Dobby had left them folded neatly on his bed that evening.

He knows what he's doing is wrong. Hermione has told him so. She is _still _telling him so.

'This isn't right, Harry,' she pleads for the umpteenth time. 'Isn't there another way you could—'

'We've been over this, Hermione. I want to talk to him, not end up exchanging hexes.'

'So _talk_ to him,' she insists. 'I really think this is all a bit extreme. I'm sure he's at least mature enough to hear you out before cursing you.'

Harry goggles at her. 'I'm sorry, but are we talking about the same person?'

Hermione sighs, defeated. 'All right, _all right, _I see your point. I still think this is a bad idea, though.'

Harry agrees that this is a Bad Idea-even perhaps the Worst Idea In The Long, Sad History Of Bad Ideas. But it's the lesser of two Evils. Evil Number One being walking into the classroom as himself, as _Harry Potter_, and getting hexed six different ways from Sunday before he can get a word out. Evil Number Two being walking into the room as anyone _but _Harry Potter, and, according to Hermione, constituting a huge breach in the Proper Conduct Wizarding Laws, which can lead to prison if he's discovered, not to mention fines and court time and, oh, did she mention, _getting expelled?_

But Harry needs to have his say. Because at least with the lesser of two Evils, he can have a chance, a shot, at getting this sorted. He doesn't know why he wants to do this so badly, only that he _does_, because these letters have expanded to fill an empty spot in Harry's chest that he's had since that time in the graveyard, watching Cedric die, and it's that happiness that all teenagers should possess but which Harry has lost to wars and Dark Lords and torture and all sorts of terrible things he doesn't like to think about. The letters help him forget. The letters let him have fun again. He can talk in these letters like any other seventeen-year-old bloke and have a good time. He doesn't want that feeling to go away.

He keeps this in mind as he hovers outside the door to the Charms classroom. He knows his correspondent is already inside, because the door is unlocked. It's now five after nine. He has been here since ten till. Fifteen minutes of staring at a door. He took the potion at quarter past eight.

He is running out of time.

_Ten minutes._

His wand is just inside his left sleeve. He is ready for an attack. He almost expects it. It's the same as wearing his Cloak, this potion; he's safe, people can't see _him_, but _he_ knows that it's _him_ and if _they_ knew it was him, he'd be a dead man. Guilty conscience. Dammit. Why couldn't he have been one of those Slytherin bastards born without one?

With a surge of impulsive nerve, he opens the door. He miscalculates the door mass and the surge slams the door open wide, so that it hits the wall inside with a loud _clunk_. At first, he thinks the classroom is empty. He's almost relieved.

Then to his left, someone says, 'You're late.'

Harry does not have to look at him to know that he was right; he's known who his correspondent was for weeks—no, months, now—and if there was any doubt before, that casual, lofty drawl nullifies it.

Harry looks at him and says, 'Malfoy.'

Draco looks at him and cocks his head. 'Smith?'

He is sitting on top of a desk, dressed in black robes and laced in shadow, but his white-blonde hair gives his position away instantly. His legs dangle idly a few inches off the floor as he sits, hands on his thighs, head still cocked and looking Harry over with steely eyes.

_Eight minutes._

Harry—Zacharias—says, 'I didn't think you'd be here.'

Clasping his hands in his lap, Draco says, 'I didn't think you'd show.' Then, as an afterthought, adds, 'Close the door.'

Harry closes the door. When he looks up, Draco is no longer on the desk, but standing beside him. He looks like—Harry blinks in surprise; he has never seen Draco Malfoy look anything other than nasty, arrogant, malicious, furious and on some occasions, downright cowardly. He has never seen Draco look like this. This, he decides, must be Draco when he looks shy.

Because even in the dim light of the room, Harry can tell that his face is growing hot. His pallid skin is terrible at disguising a blush, and no matter how in control Draco pretends to be in public, even before the letters Harry knew that he could get under his skin—that Draco is weaker than he lets on, just like Harry is braver than he lets on, and just like they are both more capable of civility than they would have ever let on in their wildest dreams if it hadn't been for those _bloody letters..._

_Seven minutes_.

Harry came here to talk. He hasn't planned his words, because he is absolutely horrible at planning speeches. He is even worse at articulating on the spot, but he has to try. Has to try and make Draco see that Harry knows he's only human, that he's not his father, that he's just a bloke who likes Quidditch and loves his mother and has a decent sense of humour and thinks up extravagant fantasises and has a fantastically nice arse from what Harry can remember in the showers. He has to make him see that the letters have made him as happy as he knows they've made Draco, and then maybe—maybe—they can come out of this with less hate and more happiness instead of the other way around.

This plan backfires badly when Harry looks up at Draco. His bright silver eyes, the flush adorning his cheeks; seeing him this close, Harry remembers all the glorified emotions he felt re-reading every letter he'd received since the start of the year earlier that evening, and he grabs the stupid sod by his green-and-silver tie, jerks him close, and kisses him violently on the mouth.

_Six minutes._

Draco stiffens at first but quickly relaxes. It's almost too natural, too perfect, the way his body falls into alignment with Harry's—Zacharias'—and melts against him, lips, tongue, chest, arms, hips, thighs and all. They end up against the door, Harry's back against it as Draco pushes into him. Zacharias is shorter than Harry, and much shorter than Draco, and Harry stumbles unexpectedly into the hard wood.

_Five minutes._

Draco's lips are dry. His chest is a firm, solid barrier like the door, but softer, warmer, and through their robes Harry can feel the heat of Draco's body as it presses into his—_Zacharias_'—chest. It's a bizarre experience, Harry discovers, trying to snog using someone else's mouth. He does not know what's different, perhaps Zacharias' tongue is a different size or his teeth aren't as straight or maybe his nose is the wrong shape, but whatever it is makes the situation uncomfortable for Harry. It feels wrong, it seems wrong, hell, he _knows_ it's wrong, but Draco is kissing him instead of hexing him and that's all he cares about right now.

_Two minutes._

Harry forgets what time is; Draco opens his mouth now, and his tongue is teasing its way into Harry's, and Harry leans into it, drinking it in, hands running down Draco's shoulders and back and resting on his sides, just under his elbows. Draco has Harry by the biceps, holding him flush against the door, and gingerly licks Harry's bottom lip, the space between his teeth, the roof of his mouth... Harry arches his body into Draco's, groaning deep in his chest, catching Draco's tongue with his and drawing their mouths tight over one another while simultaneously pulling Draco's hips against his. Draco hisses pleasantly and one of his hands leaves Harry's arm to run along his collarbone, up the soft skin of his neck, up the side of his jaw, cheek, and up into his hair. Harry feels the long fingers tangle in his fringe, caressing, tugging, yanking hard when he sucks on Draco's bottom lip.

Draco's thumb is caressing his forehead, smoothing his eyebrow while his fingers smooth his bangs, which are growing longer, untidier... Draco leans against his body, which is growing taller, leaner... Draco's thumb rubs against that small but significant spot on his forehead that, up until now, has only ever prickled _uncomfortably_, never pleasantly, not like it is now, as Draco's thumb pauses to investigate this new development and runs over it again.

Harry realises too late what's happened. He's run out of time. He hasn't said _anything—_he's probably made things worse-and now he is out of time. He knew this was a bad idea. And now, Draco knows it, too.

Harry bites his tongue painfully hard as Draco pushes him suddenly into the door, shoving them apart. The shyness is gone, replaced by something more familiar—fury—and something else that Harry can't quite place, but he doesn't get much time to evaluate this new expression as Draco quickly looks around himself, sees that Harry is still against the only door out of the room, and glares at him.

'You two-faced sonofabitch,' Draco snarls at Harry, but he is looking at the floor. 'Get the fuck out of my way.'

Harry is still panting up against the door. He sighs quickly. 'Look, Draco—'

'_Malfoy_, Potter!' Draco practically explodes. It's as if he's clinging to his fury, almost overdoing it, trying to use it to disguise whatever the emotion that Harry can't define is. It's working. His voice is a low octave Harry has never heard before, and snarls in a way that makes Harry wince inwardly. '_Move_.'

Standing up straight, Harry doesn't move aside yet. He is staring at Draco, willing him to look up at him, wanting to figure out what that other feeling is before Draco manages to escape. 'Wait,' Harry says firmly, 'just—wait, two minutes, Malfoy. We need to—'

'The only thing we _need_ to do, Potter,' Draco snaps, and he is still not looking at Harry, 'is forget this ever fucking occurred. I am going to count to three, and I swear to the Mother of Merlin if you are still between me and that door, I _will _kill you.'

Harry hesitates. He does not want to get into a duel with Draco. He knows that before any of this transpired, he would have been able to best Draco with his eyes closed. Now, he's not so certain, because now he isn't sure he would want to hurt Draco, even in self-defence.

He hesitates too long; Draco pulls out his wand. But Draco is also hesitating. Harry is still between him and the door, it's been about six seconds now, and Draco still hasn't hexed him. Draco is holding his wand up at Harry as if it has a ton of bricks tied to the tip.

Harry takes a step forward, and the ton of bricks vanishes as Draco finally looks up at him, with a look so full of hate that Harry takes a step back again.

'Get. Out. Of. My. Way,' Draco snarls through clenched teeth. 'I will _not _say it again.'

Harry folds his arms and holds Draco's gaze. 'Make me.'

Harry wonders if he's finally broken Draco down; the look Draco gives him certainly suggests as much, as something in that fury shatters, splits, and Draco's wand wavers slightly. Harry wonders why Draco's hesitating—he's never hesitated to attack Harry before, and here they are, alone in a classroom after curfew; nobody would be any the wiser. Draco could hex him sixteen different ways and walk away, blame-free. Harry is even _provoking _him. It's the perfect excuse, the perfect situation, and Draco Malfoy is hesitating.

Maybe, like Harry, Draco can't find the conviction to do it any more.

Draco lowers his wand. Harry breathes again—he almost smiles, but before he can, Draco walks up to him, grabs the door handle behind him and yanks it open with such force that it slams into Harry's back and nearly knocks him off his feet. Harry growls and makes to pursue Draco out the door, but Draco has stopped in the doorway, and Harry blinks in surprise.

Draco looks over his shoulder. 'If you know what's good for you,' he says in a very quiet, dangerous voice, 'never fucking speak to me again.' And without giving Harry a chance to respond, he is down the corridor and gone.

: : :


	4. Promise?

**Chapter Summary**: Woes of a scion, Draco Malfoy is having serious Personal Issues, temporary insanity makes an appearance at breakfast, and Harry finds out just how good Draco is with his tongue.

**A/N**: 'Theodoros' is not a typo. It's the Greek root-word of the name Theodore, meaning "gift from God", just in case some of you have no idea what Blaise is on about =P

: : :

Chapter Four  
Promise?

: : :

**11:15pm **_(later that evening)_

Blaise is in a very good mood. This isn't unusual, as Blaise is almost _always_ in a very good mood. Too much sugar, his mother reckons.

He had actually been a bit miffed the other day, bloody Draco and his big mouth... but Draco doesn't know about her, and it would probably not be a good idea to tell him yet. No, not yet, he's been a mess since he came back from the holidays, and Blaise is a good friend, and good friends don't add insult to injury. Blaise can get over Draco being an arse, because Draco's been an arse for seven years, and Blaise has perfected the routine: Blaise gets fed up, Blaise storms off, Blaise gets over it, Blaise beats him with a pillow (or, in that case, nails him with a snowball) and everything is right in the world of Slytherin again.

Blaise doesn't like to hold grudges. Life's too short. Make love, not war, that is his motto. All's fair and all that.

'All right, you randy pillocks,' he exclaims, barging into the seventh-year boys' dormitories. It's already after curfew and Blaise expects to find Draco in here, but he is not present. Crabbe and Goyle both goggle stupidly at him, like a pair of ugly goldfish that see their three-month-old plastic castle and wonder, hey, when did that get here? Theodore gives a sort of nasal grunt and buries himself further in his _Playwizard_, shoulders hunched in his very own way of saying, you even think of touching me, Zabini, and I will eviscerate you.

'Where be-est our most humble Dragon?' Blaise demands, folding his arms. 'He has an appointment with a pillow and a game of poker, and he still owes me ten Galleons from last time.'

Crabbe and Goyle look at one another. Crabbe shrugs, and Goyle says, 'He told us to fuck off.'

'That doesn't sound unusual,' Blaise says dismissively. 'Oi, Theodoros, our personal favour from the heavens, could you possibly take your eyes off that witch's tits for two seconds and—'

'Haven't seen him,' Theodore informs him shortly. He graces Blaise with a sharp look. 'Probably wanking off. Why don't you go join him?'

It must be torture, Blaise thinks, for someone like Theodore, who is perhaps the only thing in the Universe straighter than a ruler, to have lived with him for so long. Anything queerer than an earring in one ear and he starts twitching violently. Blaise has been trying to wear him down, but all it seems to do is wind him up further.

Not that that discourages Blaise, or anything.

He grins suggestively at Theodore. 'Spiffing, I think I just may. Care to join us? The more hands the merrier—' and Blaise bolts from the room before Theodore's hex hits him; he can hear it collide with the door as it slams behind him.

Blaise makes a quick stop at the Prefects' bathroom; Draco is not a Prefect this year—Theodore is; something about Draco's hexing the staff toilets to burp frogs while McGonagall was still 'engaged' and not making quite the clean get-away—but that doesn't stop them from all knowing the password. Finding it empty, Blaise knows that there is only one other place Draco would be at this hour, and—double checking corners to avoid Peeves, Filch and Filch's batty old cat—he takes the fastest route towards the Great Hall.

It's an ingenious place to go after curfew, really. Draco started doing it in their fourth year, and Blaise often joins him. Most students go to stupid places like the Astronomy Tower or, if it is warm enough, out to the pitch; but nobody ever thinks to go to the Great Hall, which has its enchanted ceiling so you can see the sky but also the advantage of privacy and climate control. Closed for the night, its tables have been stripped of their House colours, and the room is big, stony and dark with four long, identical oak tables and the smaller staff area at one end. The sky overheard is clear, and a million stars are winking down at him, giving him enough light to navigate the chairs without making a heinous amount of noise.

Draco is sitting on the staff table. Sometimes he sits in the Headmaster's chair and does Dumbledore impersonations, which always manages to amuse, but this time he is sitting on the edge of the table, legs dangling over the edge, with his head in his hands. _This_ is unusual—Draco is usually looking up at the stars, mapping out constellations, rambling about how he wishes he could go up there someday and see them up close, and sometimes, when he's feeling particularly audacious, attempting to count them all.

Blaise wordlessly approaches him, and wonders if Draco even noticed him come in. Probably not; Draco may be sly and cunning and nasty to boot, but his powers of observation aren't as keen as he likes to pretend they are. Smirking, Blaise practically skips to the table, stopping about three feet from Draco and waiting, wondering how long he'll have to stand there making increasingly loud shuffling noises before Draco notices him.

This close, he can finally see Draco's face in the near-darkness, and Blaise blinks, cocks his head, and then is benumbed with shock, as if someone has suddenly hit him with a Freezing Charm.

Blaise has this list he uses for all close friends, something he has been developing and perfecting over the past seven years. It's a list of things to do in any given situation based on the established facts, how the particular friend in question is acting, and the gravity of the problem. After so many years, the List is near-perfect; he's witnessed about every sort of issue an overly emotional and less than rational teenage boy can create for himself.

Blaise depends heavily on the List to get on with Draco, who is perhaps the most temperamental of his friends; also one of his closest, and Blaise devotes an unnatural amount of time to him because of this, because Draco just _needs_ that sort of attention. It's because he's terribly insecure, something that bewildered Blaise when he realised it, because Draco is perhaps the last person in Hogwarts with reason to feel diffident. He's pure-blood, wealthy, practically a noble by wizarding standards, popular, good-looking, intelligent and pretty sharp on a broomstick. Girls swoon over him, his fellow Slytherins obey him as if he's their general, and his father is one of the most powerful men in the country.

But in spite of all these assets, there is one thing a seventeen-year-old scion with Draco's background is not sanctioned, and that is the freedom to make up their own mind. Draco has responsibilities he doesn't want but must take, obligations to fulfil that he hates, and standards to live up to that he couldn't care less for. Blaise always asks him why he bothers, since it obviously isn't what he wants—Blaise can't understand why someone would uphold something that makes them so obviously unhappy.

It's just part of being a Malfoy, Draco tells him. Part of the job. Could be worse, right?

Apparently, it _can_ be worse. Blaise stares at him, unsure of what to do, because nowhere on the List do instructions appear for a situation such as this. Blaise is bewildered and shocked and more than just a little worried, because he has never, ever seen Draco cry before.

To Draco's credit, it's not the sort of crying most boys do. Deny what they will, most boys cry just like girls cry, the uncontrollable and messy and sobbing-all-over sort of crying, when the occasion calls for it. Boys are just generally better at restraining the urge to cry until they're alone, and then they can pretend it never happened. Draco's not even _crying_ if Blaise wants to be technical. Technically speaking, Draco is just sitting here with his head down and hands wound painfully tightly into his hair, quietly leaking tears. Or maybe Blaise has just missed the actual crying part, because Draco's collar and sleeves are damp, and his eyes are red-rimmed and he looks as if he may have been here a while.

Draco starts as he feels someone moving behind him, and with a rush discovers that Blaise has taken up the other side of the table, coming to sit back-to-back with him. He knows it's Blaise, because only Blaise knows he comes here when he wants time away from everyone else, and only Blaise would know better than to try and confront him when he's like this. He can feel Blaise's head resting against his own, and feels his shoulders heave in a heavy sigh as he leans back into him.

Draco doesn't sniff or gasp or anything so obvious as that, but simply exhales slowly, and Blaise can feel his shoulders shift as he moves his arms, wiping his eyes. Blaise has to say something, and soon; before Draco can think of an excuse to leave, or worse, clean himself up enough to act like he hasn't been crying at all. Blaise has spent enough time with Draco to know that he will sit here in silence and not say a word if Blaise lets him; problem with this is that it never _solves_ anything, and whatever the problem is never fails to resurface when Draco takes this course of action, and it always ends up worse.

Blaise fumbles inside his cloak, looking for something, finds it, and hands it over his shoulder so Draco can see it. 'Cigarette?'

Draco takes it wordlessly, and Blaise hears him light it with his wand and take several long, slow drags, each breath making the air around them reek more and more of smoke. After a few minutes, he hears Draco say, 'These things taste terrible.' His voice is quiet, but even, and anything but hostile. Apparently unperturbed by his own observation, Blaise feels him inhale another drag.

Blaise gives a short laugh. 'Takes the edge off everything else, though.'

There is a pause before Draco responds with 'Yeah' and passes the cigarette back, which Blaise accepts and puffs on thoughtfully. 'Father's rather partial to them.'

Blaise starts a bit. 'Really? The great Lucius Malfoy stoops to a lowly Muggle product?'

He hears and feels Draco laugh half-heartedly against his back. 'Only when he thinks no one is looking. Though I suppose to live with yourself after half of what he's done...'

Draco trails off, and Blaise shifts a bit, so their backs are more firmly pressed up against one another; the body contact serves to reassure. Draco rarely talks about his father any more, ever since the Dark Lord's return. Blaise asked him about it once, but Draco shut the topic down before he could take it anywhere and avoids talking about family whenever possible. He hates going home for the holidays, but whenever he tries to stay, Blaise sees him get an owl bearing the Malfoy seal, and shortly thereafter, he is packed and on his way home.

'Give it here.' Blaise takes a last drag and passes the fag back for Draco to finish off. The air around them smells like an ashtray now, and they'll have to purify it or the staff is likely to smell it in the morning. He can feel Draco hesitating to tell him what the real issue is, though with the reference to his father and the severity of his despondence, Blaise is sure he can guess what it's about.

'It's not like I have a choice,' he hears Draco say finally. 'No point in even pretending I do.'

Blaise thinks about this. 'Suppose you did, though,' he says, more gently than he usually does; 'then what would you do?' When Draco doesn't answer, Blaise presses with, 'Sod the details, Draco.'

Draco sighs and crushes the butt of the cigarette on the glossy surface of the table. 'I have no fucking idea, Zabini.'

'Well, then, can I ask you something?'

'Will it matter if I say no?'

'Does he make you happy?'

Draco's back stiffens against him, and he doesn't answer for a moment. Blaise winces, because he knows he's gone too far.

'It doesn't matter,' Draco snaps, pushing off the table without looking at him. Blaise knows why he doesn't; he can hear Draco's voice crack as he speaks. 'Because I don't have a fucking choice.'

: : :

At breakfast the next morning, news has spread that Draco Malfoy is having very serious Personal Issues. The other students give him a wide berth, and even Pansy doesn't try to fawn over him, as is her usual morning routine. Crabbe and Goyle sit on either side of him like two thick, impenetrable walls, which prevents anyone from taking a seat beside him. Blaise ignores the threatening cracks of their knuckles and slips into the seat directly across from Draco.

'Morning, sunshine,' he says cheerfully.

Draco makes a sound suggestive of a snarl and says nothing.

Breakfast has barely begun when a beautiful, shockingly white owl flutters above their heads and lands daintily on the table between Blaise and Draco. Blaise raises an eyebrow; the post has already come and gone, and this owl seems to regard Draco's bodyguards with mild trepidation. There is a small piece of parchment in her beak, unaddressed. After a moment, the owl seems to come to the conclusion that preservation of confidentiality is not worth risking life and wing against Crabbe and Goyle for, and drops her delivery right there on the table before taking off again.

There is a moment's pause as the letter sits unclaimed between the two boys. Draco is staring at it as if it might very well spontaneously combust.

Blaise flexes his fingers.

Quick as a striking serpent, Draco snatches the letter off the table roughly, crumpling it somewhat. Blaise smirks and continues to eat his breakfast. Draco glances down at the letter, which contains only one line—Draco reads it three times, quickly, before crushing it in his fist.

_You're not fooling anyone, you know. Not even yourself._

His answer is concise; a well-groomed eagle owl sweeps over the Gryffindor table, and with precise aim, drops its delivery in Harry's porridge.

_Fuck you. _

This time, Hedwig is feeling braver. She lands in a flourish of snowy feathers and hops well within crushing-reach of Crabbe and Goyle to drop her delivery in Draco's lap. Looking pleased with herself, she sweeps off again. By now, other people in the Great Hall are noticing the silent exchange via owl post. Many, many eyes follow the snowy owl back across the room to her owner.

_Who you are and who I am doesn't change anything we've already said and done. You can drop the act, Malfoy._

This time, the return letter is nearly instantaneous. Hedwig has barely landed on Harry's shoulder when it drops through the air like a small, tightly-folded bombshell and hits Harry right on the forehead with a resounding _thwack_. Hedwig hoots reproachfully at the dark-feathered owl that makes its way back to the Slytherin table.

_Fuck you._

It seems Hedwig's daring is growing with every trip; now she lands on the opposite shoulder to Draco's eagle owl, giving the Slytherin the distinct look of having his own personal Angel and Devil overlooking him, trying to dictate his actions. Unable to deny that he's already gathered attention from every eye in the Great Hall, Draco drops the guise of subtlety and snatches the letter right out of Hedwig's beak.

_Promise?_

Draco has never been prone to random acts of magic; his emotions are too controlled for them to get the better of his abilities, his father made sure of that. It is a big weakness to have vases and jars exploding all over the place every time one gets in an exceptionally bad mood.

Hence, it is a great surprise to many onlookers, Draco included, as his anger peaks and, with an echoing _fwoomsh_, the letter explodes into flames right there in his hands.

Hedwig remains sitting on his shoulder. She looks down at the charred remains of the letter and hoots dolefully.

'Piss off,' Draco hisses.

She gives him a rather reproachful look and then springs from his shoulder and soars back across the Great Hall. Blaise expects that to be that. So, it appears, does the rest of the Great Hall. Chatter and eating among the masses has resumed, and breakfast may continue on interrupted. Draco is staring at the charred remains of the letter on the table. He looks positively miserable, but, unable to think of anything to cheer him up, Blaise turns his interest back to his toast. Had he kept watching Draco, he would have seen the blonde suddenly look up and tense, as if his intuition has raised the alarm of incoming Imminent Doom.

Chatter and eating cease once more, forgotten, as the Great Hall watches Harry Potter stride boldly over to the Slytherin table. The only sound aside from Harry's footsteps is the fervent clicking of Colin Creevy's camera as it follows the Gryffindor prodigy, who reaches the Slytherin table, hailing the approach of Armageddon.

'What I want to know,' Harry says loudly, stopping beside Blaise, who blinks up at him in surprise, 'is just _what_, exactly, you think you'll accomplish like this.'

Draco raises his eyes to Harry without moving his head and does a marvellous job of looking unconcerned. 'Like _what_, Potter?'

'Like by avoiding this,' Harry snaps. 'Avoiding _me_.'

'Inner peace?' Draco suggests and he looks back down at the table. 'Happiness in life?'

'And you tell me that _I _have denial issues?'

'You have _delusion_ issues,' Draco snaps. 'You said you have too much drama in your life, so why are you insisting on causing a scene?'

'Because you're insisting on being an idiot.'

Draco sighs dramatically. 'Go away, Potter,' he says tiredly. Then adds, almost too quietly, 'Please just go away.'

'Make me.' The challenge is issued in a much harsher tone than Harry's previous words. This time, Draco does look up.

'You seem to be under the impression that I give a damn,' Draco says. His voice is surprisingly level. 'But your intuition, as usual, is extremely lacking.'

'Big words, Malfoy, as always,' Harry taunts. 'That's all you're good at, isn't it? All you fucking do is talk.'

'And all you fucking do is gripe,' Draco snaps, but his level tone is beginning to waver. 'You never let well enough alone, Potter. Go. Away.'

'Not until you get over yourself.'

'Oh, look who the fuck is talking!'

Draco finally rises to his feet and braces both hands on the table, meeting Harry's eyes.

'_I_ need to get over myself? Who the hell do you think you are? Striding over here like you know what's good for me, breaking school rules left and right just because you can get away with it, like you're _better_ than the rest of us—you've got a lot of bloody nerve, Potter. I want nothing to do with you. Do you understand me? _Nothing_. And nothing you can say or do will change that. I don't care if you get on your fucking knees and _beg_, I want _nothing_ to do with you. Now kindly _piss off_.'

Harry meets this declaration with the same steady gaze he always reserves for encounters with Draco. He seems to consider the words carefully for several long moments; Blaise is already tense and ready to dive out of the way whenever Harry decides to pull out his wand. The staff seems to sense the danger as well—although the teachers have been watching quietly with the rest of the school, McGonagall now rises, and Snape has already left the staff table and is moving towards the boys to break up the fight before it can begin.

But these actions prove unnecessary. Harry says, very curtly, 'Fine, Malfoy. Suit yourself. That's what you're best at, after all.' And he turns and walks away.

Instead of breathing a sigh of relief and sitting down, Draco just stares stupidly after him. So does the rest of the school; since when does Harry Potter back down from Draco Malfoy? It is unheard of. It's one of those things that means the End Is Near.

Blaise looks up at Draco, who is staring after Harry, as if still trying to decide what to do, like he can't understand why Harry is walking away. Nobody was expecting Harry to give in so easily—Draco, it would appear, least of all.

'Draco,' Blaise says quietly, 'if you don't go after him now—'

He doesn't need to finish. Draco is already vaulting over the table, and sprints after Harry. In one swift movement, Draco grabs Harry by the arm, spins him around, and kisses him full on the mouth.

Later, Blaise will tell Draco how hilarious it is to see the entire staff and student body drop-mouth as one.

Draco is expecting Harry to pull away. After all, he has just told him to fuck off, not two moments ago. Harry has every right to shove Draco off and punch him. Harry can push Draco away and laugh, and make a total mockery of him, right in front of the entire school.

At first, Harry freezes, every bit as shocked as their audience. Then, slowly, he tilts his head just slightly to the left and presses his lips back against Draco's, and his right hand comes up to rest on the side of Draco's jaw. Draco responds immediately. He lets his body automatically fall in line with Harry's, and his breath catches in his throat as Harry's tongue brushes across his lips, and—his brain suffers a small overload as his senses attempt to keep up with his actions—_yes_... _this_ is what he wants to feel...

Unfortunately, this is all the feeling he manages to do before someone roughly yanks him and Harry apart.

'I will assume,' Snape snarls, 'that there is a _very_ good explanation for this.' He has Draco by the back of his neck and Harry by the shoulder, and holds them both at arm's length. He looks more furious than Draco can ever remember seeing him. 'And for both your sakes, it had _better_ be on the grounds of temporary insanity.'

Snape's attempt to instil terror within them might have been more effective were it not for someone in the background choosing this moment to wolf-whistle, a sound which is quickly echoed and then followed by an eruption of cheering.

'Wipe that smirk off your face, Potter,' Snape growls through the rising, enthusiastic noise of the hall. He drops the Gryffindor as if he might contaminate him. 'Detention, tonight, for both of you!' He turns his glare to Draco. 'As for _you—_my office. _Now_.'

Harry meets Draco's eyes briefly—he doesn't look angry about being given detention, or even embarrassed that most of his peers are applauding. Instead, Harry grins rather sheepishly and, to Draco's complete bemusement, winks at him.

Draco's stomach does a little flip as Snape hauls him out of the Great Hall and down towards the dungeons.

Snape does not say a word all the way to his office. After shoving Draco unceremoniously inside, he slams the door behind him and stalks over to his desk. Draco hovers uncertainly by the door, unsure of whether he is actually in any trouble or not.

'What the hell were you _thinking_?' Snape snaps and looks up at him from the desk. 'Of all the people—of all the _places—_I thought you were _smarter_ than this, Draco.'

'Sir?' Draco interrupts. 'I don't understand what you mean—'

'Don't play ignorant,' Snape snarls. 'You understand _exactly_ what I mean.'

'Er,' Draco says, still not following. 'Sir?'

'What will your _father_ think?'

'I...' Draco trails off, suddenly feeling panicky. 'But, I don't—he doesn't—'

'You think, after that public declaration in front of the entire school, that he _won't_ know?' Snape demands.

'Er,' Draco says again. 'I hope not?'

'I can see you've spent time thinking this through,' Snape says. 'Have you considered what this... _fiasco_,' he snarls the word, 'will mean for you? Your family? Your patrimony?'

Draco looks at the floor. Of course he's thought about it. He's been thinking about it since he found out that it was Potter. But this morning... this morning he had been too concerned with losing the one spot of enjoyment he'd had all year—all of the past seven years—to think about any outside consequences of what he was doing. 'I...'

'You,' Snape interrupts, 'will be here at eight o'clock this evening to serve your detention. In the meantime, I suggest you think very carefully about the consequences of your actions, and the decisions you will now be forced into making. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, sir,' Draco says, still looking at the floor.

'Good.' Draco hears Snape's footsteps; they stop when he is stood just before him. Snape waits for Draco to look up before he continues speaking, and his voice is very low and careful. 'There is more here to consider than just yourself. Do not make the mistake of thinking that this is about _you_, Draco.'

'Yes, sir,' Draco says again.

Snape looks at him and says, 'Eight o'clock, Mr Malfoy.'

Draco nods and, after a moment's pause, flees the office.

: : :

Draco is not at dinner.

Ron had had a monumental fit the moment Harry had returned to the Gryffindor table that morning. So had Ginny, though Harry only knows this through Hermione, who apparently found her tearing her hair out in the loo shortly thereafter. Harry knew from Ron's feelings regarding Hermione's correspondent that the 'you don't _know_ him' argument would not satisfy Ron, so he tried the more straightforward 'it is what it is, deal with it' approach, using the sort of tone one does not argue with. This didn't satisfy Ron, either, but it kept him from screaming at Harry, and he'd lapsed into a sulky sort of silence since.

At dinner, the school at large is still abuzz with the news that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had a snog in the Great Hall, but Harry is fervently avoiding all conversation concerning it, and Ron and Hermione are dutifully refraining from mentioning the incident. Most of the Gryffindor table is giving Harry curious looks and whispering amongst themselves and Ginny is glaring murderously at her casserole, but it seems no one is brave enough to ask him about it. Harry is used to having people talk about him like this, and it doesn't even bother him anymore. What bothers him is the vacant spot at the Slytherin table, because Harry has not seen Draco anywhere since breakfast, not even in the classes that Gryffindor and Slytherin share.

Dinner is nearly over before Hermione attempts to break the ice.

'So,' she says nonchalantly, 'I've been drawing up some timetables to help us prepare for NEWTs—'

'Those are _ages _away, Hermione,' Ron moans. 'We haven't even begun review work in classes yet!'

'Well, there's no point in being unprepared; these are our final marks, after all—Harry, where are you going?'

Harry is climbing out of his seat, and swings his bag over his shoulder. 'Common room,' he says automatically. 'Need to—um—check on something.'

'I'll go with you, mate,' Ron offers and begins to stand. 'I need to—ow!'

Hermione clears her throat and tries to look like she has not just kicked Ron under the table. 'I think Harry can check on it _himself_, Ron.'

'What?' says Ron, oblivious. 'But—'

'Yeah,' Harry says quickly. 'Need, er, some time—alone, to think, you know. Can't concentrate with all this bloody noise—sorry,' he adds at the rather hurt look Ron is giving him, but leaves the Great Hall before anyone else can ask him where he is going. Harry can feel every pair of eyes on him as he leaves the Hall and he quickens his pace.

He does not, in fact, go back to the common room, but out the main doors and into the grounds. It's still early evening, barely six o'clock, but it's winter and the sun has nearly set over the horizon, casting pink and orange shadows across the Forest and the snowy fields. Heading left, Harry leaves the frozen lake to his back and breaks into a slow jog, and the only sound is the steady _fwunf fwunf _of his boots as he cuts a path through the clean snow.

Harry's favourite tree on the grounds is the large, lonely beech tree that overlooks the Quidditch pitch. It's the tree Ron and him always do their homework under during the warmer months while watching the other Quidditch teams practice, and the same tree he likes to doze under in May and June when the end of the year is coming and he is dreading going back to the Dursleys' for another two months—something that he thankfully never, ever has to do again.

Harry doesn't know how he knows—call it a lucky guess—but Draco is under this tree, leaning against the trunk and looking out at the pitch, away from Harry. He's wearing his school robes and a long, dark cloak, an inky stain on the white landscape, and as Harry gets closer he can see that Draco's cheeks are pink and his hair is frosted, and it looks as if he's been standing out here for a very long time. Harry slows down and walks the last few feet, wondering when Draco is going to turn around and acknowledge him.

Draco is lost in thought, and nearly starts when he notices Harry coming up beside him. He stiffens, too, because Harry is standing very close, so close, in fact, that their shoulders are touching. It's an odd sensation, but warm and sturdy, and Draco resists the urge to lean into it. He is grateful that Harry is not looking at him yet, but at the distant pitch—they both are, afraid to look each other in the eye, because what happened earlier was _in the moment_ and this... this is much more sober, much more deliberate, and Draco has never been so terrified of Harry in his life.

First shoulders, now elbows, and Draco feels the pressure as it moves down his arm—as Harry leans against him, closer and closer, until the backs of their hands meet. Neither of them are wearing gloves, and Draco's hand is very cold.

'Potter—' Draco stops as Harry suddenly obscures his view of the pitch; there are two fingers against his lips, and it's the only thing separating them from Harry's.

'Shut up,' Harry says. He removes his fingers. He is looking at Draco now, and Draco looks into his eyes, closer than he ever has before, and maybe it's just the snow or the closeness but Draco can't remember them ever being so very... _green_. Draco can feel hot breath on his lips and nose and chin and he can smell traces of gravy and cranberry and Harry is so, so frighteningly close—

'Don't,' Harry murmurs as Draco begins to back away. Harry is holding him with his eyes, because if Draco could look away he would be running, running away before this can go any further. Harry licks his lips and touches Draco's chin with his fingers and tilts Draco's head down while lifting his own head up, and their noses bump, and then their elbows and knees and shoulders are knocking together but Draco doesn't care anymore, because all he can think about is that Harry's lips are on his.

It's not like the kiss at breakfast, which was quick and chaste and the only time in his life that Draco can ever remember acting on impulse. Harry's lips press against his once, firm and slow, and he lingers on Draco's bottom lip and Draco's breath catches in his throat. Harry presses again, and Draco responds this time, and tilts his head slightly to the left and Harry's hands shift so they are holding Draco's upper arms, and they pause there, almost frozen for an instant that seems to drag on and on and on...

Harry's glasses are pressing painfully into Draco's nose and cheekbones and Draco pulls away, licking his lips. Harry makes a small noise of protest, and one of his hands moves up Draco's shoulder to the back of his neck and Harry rests his forehead against Draco's, whose breath is fogging up Harry's glasses because he is breathing so heavily. Draco reaches up, and his fingers are touching Harry's cheek and he hesitates—until Harry leans into the touch, closing his eyes. Then Draco exhales against Harry's lips and tentatively pulls off his glasses, and he lets the frames linger along the bridge of Harry's nose and then his lips, and finally Draco pulls the glasses down and away, replacing the frames with his mouth.

This time Draco is the one that presses, harder and more urgently; he takes Harry's face in his hands and pulls Harry forward, sliding his mouth over Harry's, and Harry makes another small noise, this time in surprise, and Draco swallows it. His hands and lips and cheeks are freezing cold and Harry momentarily fumbles in the face of Draco's sudden aggressiveness, but Draco is determined and holds him fast. Harry's mouth opens under him and somewhere in the middle their tongues collide and all Draco can do to lock out the cold is concentrate on how hot Harry's mouth is, breathing into his.

This is not Draco's first proper snog. His first legitimate kiss was at the Yule Ball with Pansy Parkinson, and it is an embarrassing memory that Draco wishes he could Obliviate from himself. There have been a few random snogs since then, with Pansy and other girls, and a dim memory of too much Firewhisky and Blaise comes to mind, and that tiny incident in the Charms classroom that was a bit unexpected, but at the very least, Draco has never _properly_ kissed another boy, and Draco's certainly never kissed anyone with this sort of fervour before. It's a bit alien, a bit strange, and a large chunk of very, very good; why the hell in how many years has he never done this before?

The hand Harry has on the back of Draco's neck moves up into his hair and his fingers thread through it, stroking and tangling, and Draco shivers under the touch. Draco hasn't eaten since breakfast and Harry tastes like everything he ate at dinner and Draco is suddenly very, very hungry for everything about Harry, from the way his breath hitches when Draco bites his lower lip to the way Harry's hand tightens in his hair every time Draco sucks on his tongue, and somehow Draco is moving and Harry follows until Draco has him backed up against the tree. They bump into the trunk so hard that the tree shudders and sprinkles them with snow from its branches, but they don't take any notice.

Draco is bearing down on Harry; sometime over the past few years he's grown an inch or two taller, and though it isn't much, and they've never been close enough for it to make a difference before, it makes one now and Draco uses it to pin Harry to the tree and descend on his mouth. Harry isn't fighting him and this surprises Draco, because he's always figured Harry is the sort to be in control in any given situation, but Harry seems completely willing and allows Draco to lead the kiss, dominating Harry's tongue, and Draco runs his hands down Harry's neck and chest and seizes his hips and presses him roughly against the bark.

Somewhere in the kissing and touching their chests and hips and legs have come up against each other, and without really thinking about it Draco nudges a knee between Harry's legs. Draco's grip on Harry's hips is hard and must hurt, but Harry isn't complaining, and Draco pushes his knee against Harry's thigh. He can feel Harry smile into the kiss and lean his weight against the tree, and then he presses his thigh back against Draco's knee.

Harry doesn't know how long they are kissing and is even less sure of who pulls away first; both boys are breathless, with swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Draco's eyes are still closed but his body lingers against Harry's, and his knee is still between Harry's legs, resting against the inside of his thigh. Harry's hand is still in Draco's hair and Draco's hands are on his neck and shoulders, fingers idly caressing the skin there.

Harry dimly wonders what Draco has done with his glasses; the pitch and the landscape around them is a blurry haze of shadows and pinks and oranges on white, but Draco is close enough that Harry can see him clearly. His skin is so pale it's nearly the same colour as his hair, save for the rosy tint adorning his cheeks and the tips of his nose and ears, and the vibrant red of his lips and mouth, still moist from the kiss. There are small snowflakes caught in his eyelashes and his breath is coming in long, shallow breaths that mist the small space between their mouths. Harry knows it is cold outside, he can even feel it, so it's a good thing that he is the complete opposite of caring about it.

In one motion, Draco inhales deeply and removes his hands from Harry's neck and shoulders. Draco removes his leg, too, but more slowly, letting his knee linger against the inside of Harry's. Harry still leans against the tree for support and swallows the aggrieved noise that tries to creep out of his throat. Harry's eyes close and his head hits the rough bark as he tilts it back. Draco reaches up and takes the hand that is in his hair by the wrist and gently removes it, and kisses the palm as he pulls it down. Harry opens his eyes and trails his fingers along Draco's cheek as Draco removes his hand, still grasping his wrist.

Once Harry's hand is between them, Draco's knee is no longer near Harry's. Draco pushes Harry's glasses into his hand and releases his wrist. He is looking at Harry now, and exhales sharply and shoves his hands into the pockets of his robes.

'I'm sorry,' he says quietly.

'What?' Harry asks, panting. He wonders why Draco is apologising for perhaps the best snog he's ever had; Draco had not been lying—he is bloody _fantastic_ with his tongue. 'Sorry for what?'

'Sorry for that,' Draco says. He looks not at Harry but at the darkening horizon behind him. 'For this. For all of it.'

Harry is confused. That morning, this now, all of it—it has all been a very good thing, as far as Harry is concerned. He tightens the grip on his glasses, suddenly feeling, without Draco so close, very cold. 'Why?'

Draco inhales deeply again and his eyes flicker back to Harry. He looks as if he is wincing. 'Because this is it, Potter. I can't do this.'

Harry blinks. The corners of his eyes scream in protest because they are beginning to freeze. 'What?' Harry says again. 'What do you mean, this is _it_? What about—'

'What I mean is that this is _it_,' Draco repeats. He looks as if he might be ill. 'Us. This. I can't do this. I _can't_, Potter,' he insists as Harry opens his mouth to protest. 'I'm sorry,' he says for the third time. He looks at the ground and hovers uncertainly; just as Harry moves to step forward, Draco sweeps away with a twirl of cloak and robes and stalks back to the school, leaving Harry alone by the tree and wondering if he is missing something important; or, perhaps he really is just that terrible a kisser.

: : :


	5. Except, Apparently, When They Do

**Chapter Summary**: The boys do detention, Draco wants to die, Harry wants to have Draco for dinner, Blaise thinks this is getting disgusting, and Lucius is _not _pleased.

: : :

Chapter Five  
Except, apparently, when they do.

: : :

**8:05pm** _(that evening)_

'Have you heard from your father yet?'

Draco tenses. 'No,' he says curtly, smoothing out a roll of parchment on the desk before him. 'Is this all, Professor?' he asks, indicating the third-years' homework Snape has given him to grade.

Snape taps the box on the desk with his wand and it springs open. 'Fifth-year proposal potion drafts for O.W.L.s.. That should keep you occupied long enough. And see that you double check the ingredients with _particular_ care. When you undoubtedly dohear from him,' Snape continues, 'be sure to inform me immediately.'

Draco hesitates, waiting until Snape has moved away from the desk before saying, 'May I ask _why_, Professor?'

Snape stops, and turns halfway back around to look at him. 'Do you really wish to speak with him _alone?'_

Draco is barely given time to consider an answer before there is a sharp, impatient knock on the door. Snape rolls his eyes and mutters, 'As usual.'

Snape swings the door open with a flourish and moves to obscure the doorway, glaring down at the intruder.

'I believe the note said eight o'clock, Potter,' Snape sneers down at him—there is, admittedly, considerably less of a height difference now than there was a couple of years ago, but Snape still somehow manages to lift that monument of a nose in such a way as to still cast a shadow over Harry. 'Not six minutes after eight, but eight o'clock _sharp_.'

'Sorry, _sir_,' Harry mutters, matching the look of disdain Snape directs at him. 'I was held up.'

'I did not ask for excuses.' Snape closes the door behind him, sealing the Potions classroom that he has just left. 'Follow me.'

Harry blinks. He has seen, over Snape's shoulder, that Draco is in the Potions classroom—from the looks of it, grading papers on Snape's desk as way of detention—and wonders why Snape is taking him elsewhere. 'But sir, why aren't I—'

'I did not ask for questions, either,' Snape snaps. He starts down the hall towards his office. 'Be quiet, and come with me.' Harry seethes, but quietly, and follows Snape into his office. It's as tiny and dark and damp as always, and Snape directs him to the uncomfortable, spindly chair in front of the desk. 'Sit.'

Harry sits and folds his arms, glaring, as Snape walks around behind the desk, taking a seat in the large leather chair there. He watches Harry for a few minutes, as if tempting him to speak, to lash out, to scream at him and demand what the hell he wants, but Harry clamps down on his tongue and simply continues to glare, refusing to give in. No, he's not giving Snape any excuse for further punishments, Harry thinks. He'll sit here all evening in this splintery, thorny chair and glare, unblinkingly, if he has to.

After another two minutes, Harry's eyes begin to water; he blinks. Snape smirks and folds his hands on the desk, leaning forward. 'I would assume that you know why you are here,' he begins, 'but after more than six years of dealing with increasing incompetence, I fear that doing so would be setting myself up for disappointment.'

Harry refrains, with much difficulty, from rolling his eyes. 'It wouldn't have anything to do with this morning, would it?' he asks curtly. Then, with just enough of a delay to demonstrate the utter disrespect he has for his professor, adds, '_Sir?'_

'Your antics in the Great Hall notwithstanding,' Snape says dismissively, 'I am referring more specifically to the underlying implications and any resulting events.'

Harry blinks again. Snape is not speaking to him in the normal You Are Nothing But An Arrogant Little Twit tone. There is something more urgent about Snape's voice now, though his expression has lost none of its overt disfavour. 'What _are_ you saying,' again, with a deliberate pause, 'sir?'

'What I am trying to get through that thick skull of yours, Potter, is that you have, predictably, not considered the consequences of your actions for yourself or those involved.' Snape sits back in his chair and folds his arms. 'It is, regrettably, not within my power to forbid you and Mr Malfoy from consorting with one another. However—' Snape lowers his voice, '—speaking in the best interests of the both of you, I would highly recommend that you muster enough self-control to refrain from doing so.'

Narrowing his eyes, Harry says, 'Pardon me, _sir_, but since when is it any of your concern who I—' Harry stumbles, '—er, _associate_ with?'

'Since you chose to _associate_ with my most virtuoso pupil,' Snape snaps, adopting the much more familiar Arrogant Little Twit tone. 'As self-absorbed as you may be, Potter, there are things to consider here other than your own welfare.'

'Do you mean Draco's welfare, sir,' Harry says icily, 'or your _own?'_

Snape's lips form a thin line and he narrows his gaze, apparently discomfited by hearing Harry use Draco's given name, but continues nonetheless. 'As I said before, it is not within my jurisdiction to prevent the two of you from... _commingling_. However—' Snape lowers his voice again and leans forward, '—if I find you are pursuing Mr Malfoy despite his efforts to avoid your company, the term _immediate_ does not begin to describe how quickly I will see you expelled from this institution.' He pauses, then adds, 'Do I make myself clear, Potter?'

Through gritted teeth, Harry says, 'Yes, Professor.'

Snape nods, satisfied, and then stands and flicks his wand; his desk clears itself, and two large cauldrons appear, both filled to the brim with a multitude of small miscellaneous items. Snape indicates several empty glass jars that are also sat on the desk. 'For your detention, you will sort and separate these ingredients. When you are finished,' he continued with a smirk, 'tap the cauldrons with your wand and they will refill themselves, and you will do it again.'

Harry stares at him. 'And how long am I supposed to do this for?' Then, delayed, 'Sir?'

Snape's smirk becomes more pronounced. 'Until I say so, Mr Potter.'

: : :

The next day, Draco hopes his lack of sleep isn't obvious. It very clearly is, unfortunately, for at breakfast Blaise sits across from him and raises an eyebrow. 'You look like right shit, mate.'

'Cheers,' Draco says dryly and prods his eggs with the end of his knife.

Perhaps it's wishful thinking to imagine that his day will improve. After all, Draco is not spending every waking moment reliving the tantalising three minutes he spent under the beech tree with Potter the previous evening, because that would be completely counterproductive to Draco's plan to pretend said three minutes never happened. He is not thinking about Harry's lips against his, or Harry pulling on his hair, or how good it felt to pin Harry to the tree and snog him to within an inch of his life. Draco is not thinking about how hot and slick Harry's mouth was, how Harry's hips probably bear bruises from their little liaison, or how utterly and irresistibly willing Harry had been against him...

_I am doomed, _Draco thinks woefully after snapping back to the present for the fifth time in Ancient Runes, a class in which he has never had trouble concentrating before. _I am a hopeless case beyond saving. If anyone in this cruel, cruel world were kind, they would kill me now._

'Murder me, Zabini,' he pleads quietly. 'Please? I'll pay you. Very well. I have lots and lots of money. I could buy you your own _country_. Possibly your own moon. Who wouldn't want their own moon?'

'Tempting,' Blaise says without looking up. 'Toss in a blowjob and you might have a deal.'

Draco furrows his brow. 'I'm not _that_ desperate.'

'Yet,' Blaise corrects him cheerfully, still shuffling through his bag for a quill. 'We shall see. I am a very patient man.'

'You're a terrible friend,' Draco tells him, and buries his head in his hands.

Blaise smirks, twirling his newly discovered quill between his fingers. Vince and Greg could not have survived in Ancient Runes if their lives depended on it, and are instead suffering through Divination, which requires no brains at all, just enough stamina to withstand the fumes. Blaise, however, for all his insouciance, is surprisingly erudite, and is a good study partner and an even better friend, for he has not mentioned anything to do with Harry Potter or Gryffindors in general since breakfast; in fact, after three failed attempts at conversation concerning Quidditch, he has left Draco to his own devices, a silent but perfectly adequate figure of Moral Support.

'Can anyone translate the ancient curse inscribed in the Björketorp runestone?' Professor Radford is asking the class at large. Surprise, surprise, Draco thinks, rolling his eyes, as Granger's hand is first in the air. 'Yes, Miss Granger?'

"_Here, I have hidden the secret of powerful runes, strong runes. The one who breaks this memorial will be eternally tormented by anger,_" Granger recites verbatim from the text. "_Treacherous death will hit him. I foresee perdition._"

'Very good, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor. Now, can anyone tell me...'

"_I foresee perdition_," Draco mocks under his breath. He is eager to take his frustration out on something, something other than Harry Potter, because that, while preferable, would be at the worst blasphemous and at the least most definitely counterproductive. Harry's bushy little female accomplice, however, supplies Draco with an ideal scapegoat. 'Perdition's been on our doorstep ever since that idiot Dumbledore let Mudbloods into this place.'

Blaise shifts slightly but does not respond. Draco is curious, because Blaise is always quick to jump on the Gryffindor slander bandwagon.

'...which was also used on the Stentoften runestone,' Granger concludes yet another answer, earning another ten points for Gryffindor.

'Yes, let's reward word-for-word citation of the text that requires no creative evaluation at all,' Draco continues in a sour undertone. He balances his chin on his hands as he glares at the bushy head in the front row. 'Wouldn't want to try and progress our minds or anything, it's only a place of _learning,_ after all.'

Blaise snaps his book closed with unnecessary force. 'You know the course content as well as any,' he says coldly, 'so instead of griping about Granger, why don't you save your breath to answer the questions and earn _us_ some points for a change?'

Draco is sure he would be gaping in shock, had Blaise's words not caught him so completely off-guard that he can't even manage to look at his friend, and instead keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead. Not a full moment later there is a great scraping of chairs as Professor Radford dismisses the class, and Draco hears Blaise stand up quickly and sling his bag over his shoulder. Without a word, Blaise departs, leaving Draco in his seat, staring at the blackboard.

_What the bloody hell was that about? _

Blaise never snaps—certainly not at Draco, anyway. They get along ridiculously well, because Blaise is always friendly and in a good mood and cheers Draco up when Draco's having a bad day, going out of his way to make sure Draco doesn't kill anyone or do something else rash to get himself expelled. Blaise does these things for every Slytherin because Blaise is a _good friend_, and good friends do not suddenly change their habits and shut out friends in need, especially when they are having such an exceptionally bad day as Draco.

Except, apparently, when they do.

Draco narrows his eyes. He is obviously missing something. But whatever it is, he doesn't see how it's more important than _him_. Still, the day is almost over; classes are done and people are heading to dinner as Draco steps out of the classroom and into a sea of cloaks accented with multicoloured scarves. Draco and Harry haven't had any classes together today, and Harry wasn't at breakfast, so Draco has avoided him successfully so far.

Obviously, such good luck cannot last.

This is all Blaise's fault, Draco decides. If Blaise were here, he would steer Draco away from the Certain Doom that approaches behind round spectacles, glass shields that stand guard over bright green eyes—green eyes with some sort of unnatural power that can lasso Draco with a glance and extinguish any coherent thought like a lit match dropped in a frigid lake. Without his figure of Moral Support, Draco is helpless against this mysterious power and he is going to kill Blaise the next time he sees him because this is _surely_ going to end in tears.

Again.

Harry stops when he sees Draco. There is a brief pause that lasts forever as they look at one another, and other students continue to file past. Weasley stops beside Harry until Granger wordlessly hooks him by the elbow and forcefully drags him away; the crowd in the hallway thins and as the last students skirt by them (not without throwing them a considerable number of curious looks), Harry finally looks away and moves to sidestep Draco, but Draco's arm stops him by the middle and shoves him up against the nearest wall.

The force of the push leaves Harry winded, and by the time he has enough breath to speak, Draco has covered Harry's mouth with his own. Harry makes a pleased noise and effectively melts between Draco and the wall. Draco's fingers fumble with Harry's tie and collar while Harry offhandedly pushes Draco's bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. Harry's body is pliable and solid all at once against him and Draco is frighteningly aware of their elbows and knees and chests bumping into each other, how Harry is wearing winter robes made of thick, insulating fabric and that the deserted corridor is very cold and he can feel the heat of Harry's body radiating through the clothing and into his own, and Draco shivers against him.

Finally Draco pulls back, breathing hard, and is immediately fixated by the image Harry presents; lips swollen and moist, the intense red colour of his mouth and tongue visible through his parted lips, cheeks faintly flushed under the rims of his glasses, behind which his eyes are heavy-lidded emeralds, unnervingly clear and sparkling with great fervour. Harry's breath is coming in shallow gasps and his eyelashes flutter as his lids drop lower and he licks his lips. Draco sucks in a deep breath, storing away all of these vital details for later, and descends on Harry's mouth once more.

The kiss is rushed and sloppy and there is a lot of biting and clashing of teeth and saliva all over but it feels just as good as the kiss under the beech tree, and Harry's breath still hitches in the same way and his hand tangles familiarly in Draco's hair. Draco growls into the kiss and runs his hands down Harry's sides to grasp his hips as he did the day before, pinning him flush up against the wall, and nips the corner of Harry's mouth, the sharp edge of his jaw and the soft skin of his throat.

Harry makes a wheezing noise and grips Draco's forearms. Draco's teeth travel down Harry's throat to his collarbone, free from his shirt now that Draco has undone his tie and left it draped over his shoulders. Harry gasps hotly and his hold on Draco's forearms tightens with such intensity that it borders on painful, and Draco bites him hard in retaliation.

'Fuck,' Harry hisses, but he arches into the rough treatment nonetheless. 'I thought—I thought you couldn't—this—you said you can't—' Draco bites him again, even harder, and Harry hisses, a bright red mark appearing just above his collar.

'I did say.' Draco tilts his head up. 'And I can't,' he murmurs against Harry's throat.

Harry swallows, his throat working against Draco's mouth. 'Then why—' Draco latches onto the side of his neck again, but there is more sucking than biting this time and it feels sinfully good, and Harry thinks he will look like he's been mauled by a Hungarian Horntail by the time Draco is through with him. '—why—'

'Shut up.' Draco trails his mouth up to Harry's jaw, kissing and nibbling over to his ear and nipping his earlobe sharply. 'You never know when to shut up. Just _shut up_.'

Harry wants to point out that he isn't talking anymore, that _Draco_ is the one who is talking, but that would be contradicting the order to _shut up_, which, when he thinks about it, would probably be a very good idea right now, because Draco has pulled off his glasses again and is worrying Harry's bottom lip with his teeth. Harry groans and sags against the wall, and kisses Draco, or tries to, but Draco pulls away—just slightly, hairbreadths from Harry's mouth—and Harry exhales heavily and licks his lips. He tries again, reaching forward, neck at a painful angle, but Draco grins teasingly and hovers just out of reach.

Harry, impatient, tries to pull Draco's head forward with the hand that is once again tangled in his hair, but Draco braces one hand against the wall over Harry's shoulder and holds firm, eyes flashing mischievously. Then he moves, quickly, kissing Harry lightly, pulling away as Harry reaches forward; Harry's head falls back and Draco moves again, licking the line between Harry's lips, and pulls away as Harry opens his mouth in response—Draco is teasing him, Harry realises, the sadistic bastard is _teasing_ him and holding him there and making him _want it_ like nothing he's ever wanted before and for fucks sakes, it is _working_.

'Hm,' Draco whispers against Harry's lips, 'you like that?'

'I hate you,' Harry replies throatily, and tries to bite, but Draco pulls out of range.

'You want me.' Draco breathes the correction against Harry's chin, both looking and sounding extremely smug. Taking his hand off Harry's shoulder, he runs his palm, firm and slow, down Harry's chest, holding him there, and sucks thoughtfully on Harry's bottom lip before pulling away again. 'Admit it.'

Harry growls. 'Fuck you.'

Draco leers at him and murmurs against his lips, 'Promise?'

Harry is pretty sure he is nodding but he's having a hard time keeping track of anything because Draco is kissing him again, long, hard and slow. Harry does not need to say anything because his body is admitting it for him in waves as Draco presses against him, his tongue smooth and slick against Harry's own, and he would be quite happy to stay pinned to this wall and have Draco for dinner, but it is a known fact that Bad Luck loves Harry Potter and suddenly a loud, conspicuous _thud_ interrupts the crisp silence in the corridor.

Draco just barely pulls away to search for the source of the noise with slightly glazed eyes; when he finds it, his gaze clears and he steps fully away from Harry, who finds himself holding his glasses and hastily crams them on as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Vision restored, Harry blinks dizzily at the form of Ginny Weasley, standing a few metres away with several textbooks lying forgotten at her feet.

She glares for what seems like an eternity. Harry stares, unsure of how to react, while Draco straightens his robes and brushes his hair back into place with his fingers. Finally, Ginny snaps, 'I can't even find the words, Harry.'

Harry swallows. He's still leaning against the wall, using it to support himself. His eyes dart to Draco, who meets his gaze and shrugs. He reaches forward, rubbing the pad of his thumb along Harry's bottom lip, smirking. 'Ta, Potter,' Draco says quietly and the side of his mouth twitches as he turns away and heads down the corridor towards the Great Hall, where most of the school is still at dinner.

Ginny recovers and begins to gather up the books. Harry moves forward to help, but she slaps his hands away. 'Don't,' she says curtly without looking up at him. 'I don't want your help. I don't want anything from you.'

'Ginny,' he says patiently, withdrawing his hands but remaining squatting beside her. 'Listen, there's a lot you—you don't know—'

'Just _stop it_, Harry!' she snaps. She grabs the last book and stands, recoiling from Harry as he follows suit. 'I don't care what your reasons are. I don't want to hear excuses. There _are none_,' she says forcefully as Harry tries to interrupt. 'I've been trying—_really_ _trying—_to understand since the other day at breakfast, but this...' She looks at him, disgusted, angry, and disappointed all at once. 'There are no excuses for it, Harry. Not for _him_.'

Harry winces as he sees that her eyes are beginning to water, though she stoutly refrains from breaking into tears. She glares at him and attempts to sidestep him to get to dinner, and Harry stops her gently by the elbow. Looking over her shoulder at the floor, he says, 'For what it's worth, I'm sorry.'

Through the small connection of his fingers with her elbow, Harry can feel her shudder and knows her resolve has finally broken; should he look, he would see tears falling down her cheeks, but he keeps his gaze fixed over her shoulder. She wrenches away from him. 'Nothing you say is worth anything to me anymore,' she spits at him, and stalks away, leaving him alone in the deserted corridor.

_Well, that could have gone better, _Harry thinks crossly. He runs his hand through his hair and starts when he realises his tie is still undone and the first two buttons of his shirt collar are open and he probably has an alarming collection of bruises on his neck, and he tries without success to prevent a grin from spreading across his face as he remembers how he got them. _But then, it certainly could have gone a lot worse._

: : :

To say the least, last night had been host to a particularly thrilling wank, mostly thanks to thoughts of that evening's previous endeavours along with the necessary imagination. Draco wakes in such a jovial mood that even Blaise seems to forgive him for whatever had pissed him off the previous day and, after the compulsory pillow thumping, accompanies Draco to breakfast, prodding him for details of his not-so-discrete-as-hoped liaison with Harry in the not-so-deserted-as-hoped corridor.

'Stop looking at me like that,' Draco snaps, his attempt at sounding irate somewhat unsuccessful, though Blaise's ogling is beginning to get unnerving.

'Sorry,' Blaise says, shaking his head. 'S'rather hard not to. I mean, you're practically _glowing_, Malfoy.'

'Sod off. I am not.'

'You _so_ are,' Blaise insists, sniggering. 'Even Pans noticed, and she's nearly as thick as your dim-witted duo.'

'Is that why she's all buggered?' Draco wonders aloud, glancing down the table to where Pansy is decidedly not looking at him. He looks back up at Blaise, who is still grinning at him like a madman. 'Nose _down_, Zabini. Nothing happened, all right?'

Blaise peers over his head in the direction of the Gryffindor table, where Harry is sitting between Weasley and Granger, trying without success to disguise a grin and incontestable evidence of the fling in the corridor; there are several red marks of varying shades just above his collar, visible even from across the Great Hall, and he keeps shooting furtive glances at the back of Draco's head.

'If by "nothing" you mean your teeth left imprints in his neck, sure,' Blaise says. 'That or he was recently attacked by a very enthusiastic vampire. Good lord, you bloody _mauled_ him, didn't you? He's not _that_ fetching, is...' Blaise trails off. Draco is staring at the tabletop, bottom lip trapped between his teeth; his eyes flicker up to Blaise, who raises his eyebrows. '...is he?'

Draco sags, giving into his euphoria and letting his head drop into his arms, which are folded on the table, and lets out a groan. 'You have _no_ idea.'

Snorting, Blaise shakes his head. 'Who would've guessed? Harry Potter's a winsome little tart.' Draco raises his head and gives him a look, but he's grinning something ridiculous. Blaise grimaces. 'Hell, you're smitten. It's starting to get disgusting.' Draco's grin grows involuntarily. 'Stop that,' Blaise orders. 'Or I shall be forced to do something you'll regret.'

Draco snorts and steals a piece of Blaise's toast. He distractedly opens the morning post; a letter from home, by the looks of it, delivered by a handsome eagle owl, the roll of parchment sealed with the Malfoy family crest.

_I will be calling upon you at Hogwarts in two days' time. I daresay I needn't explain why.  
I suggest you use the time until my arrival to prepare an acceptable explanation for your behaviour.  
Give Severus my regards,  
L. M._

Draco stares at it bleakly, his blissful high evaporating as he finishes reading, and the half-chewed toast in his mouth suddenly tastes like ash.

Blaise blinks at the abrupt change in his demeanour. 'Oi,' he says, 'who died?'

Draco hands him the letter and lets his head drop back into his arms, this time in dread. 'I did.'

: : :

Draco is avoiding him.

Harry knows because Draco leaves breakfast early, does not show up for Defence Against the Dark Arts, and then is not at dinner. Draco isn't at breakfast the next day either, and Harry is beginning to get impatient. After all, you can't have passionate snogs with someone one day and go cold turkey the next. It is a cruel and unusual punishment, and Harry bears this justification in mind as he lies in wait in the dungeons. He knows that Snape is going to have him expelled if he catches him but it's the only chance Harry has at seeing Draco alone because Draco _never_ misses Potions, not even to avoid Harry.

Sure enough, scarcely a minute before class begins, Draco rounds the corner with his usual crew. Crabbe and Goyle lead the way like a two-human plow, shoving Gryffindors and lesser Slytherins out of the way as Draco follows behind, with Pansy and Blaise flanking him like bodyguards. Harry leans against the wall, purposely obstructing the corridor, and ignores the threatening scowl from Goyle as he halts.

'Move,' he says.

'Piss off,' Harry says smoothly. 'You don't own this corridor.'

'Greg, it's fine,' Draco says swiftly before Goyle finishes raising his fist; he lowers it obediently, though he looks forlorn as he does so.

Harry hasn't moved, is still propped against the wall with folded arms, looking grossly unconcerned that he's a lonely Gryffindor against five armed and dangerous Slytherins. Blaise eyes Harry impassively and Pansy is practically hissing, but Harry ignores them. 'I need to talk to you,' he says to Draco.

'Later,' Draco says.

'Now,' Harry tells him, 'if you don't mind.'

'He minds,' Pansy snaps, stepping forward.

'"He" is quite able to make up his own mind, thanks,' Draco snaps irritably, brushing past her. Blaise raises his eyebrows but Draco shakes his head. 'It's fine. Go. I won't be long.'

There is a small pause in which the group of Slytherins hover around Draco uncertainly before departing, Blaise moving last and giving Harry a long, hard look as he walks away. As soon as they round the corner, Harry opens the door behind him; it leads to an empty classroom, and Draco steps inside without a word, Harry following.

Once inside, Draco does not turn around, preferring instead to stare at the floor as he listens to Harry close the door behind them. He hears footsteps as Harry approaches and touches his shoulder, slowly turning Draco to face him. Harry does not hesitate or ask or give Draco any chance to pull away as he leans in and kisses him, softly, tenderly, a lingering but chaste press of lips on lips, before pulling away from Draco's mouth and pressing their foreheads together instead.

Unprepared for the assault, Draco leans into the touch, wanting it and terrified of it at the same time, the twisting of his stomach due to both a deep, intimate pleasure and a sense of dread. His eyes are closed and he can feel Harry's breath against his lips and as their noses touch, Draco moves without really thinking about it, nuzzling against Harry before he realises what he is doing—and even when he does, he knows it feels good and right on so many different levels that he can't seem to force himself to pull away.

'Why are you doing this,' Harry says quietly. 'This is bloody torture.'

Draco opens his eyes. Harry is looking at him, those sparkling green orbs far closer than is fair. 'It is,' he agrees breathlessly.

'Then why,' Harry says again. He closes his eyes and nudges Draco's nose back with his own. 'Give me one good reason why we can't—'

'No.' The word is sharp and Draco pulls away, pushing Harry from him, backing towards the door. 'I mean it this time. I can't do this. I won't.'

Harry opens his eyes and glares at Draco indignantly. 'Why the hell not?'

'Because I don't have to, all right? I just fucking can't,' Draco says simply, coldly, in a tone completely removed from what he is feeling at the moment. He turns and opens the door, pausing on the threshold. 'I really am sorry,' he says from the doorway, and leaves Harry in the empty classroom, debating what will be worse—enduring two hours stuck in a classroom with Draco after this, or Snape's reaction to him being quarter of an hour late.

: : :

Draco awakes well before sunrise on Saturday morning, as abruptly as if someone had set an active Sneakoscope next to his head. He groans and rolls over and tries to go back to sleep, but one line persistently reverberates in his head, over and over, demanding his conscious attention:

_I will be calling upon you at Hogwarts in two days' time._

Grimacing, Draco rolls out of bed.

According to the old grandfather clock in the corner, it's nearly four in the morning. Lovely start to the day, he thinks. Knowing his father's scheduling habits, he has about five hours to shower, dress, have breakfast, and say his prayers to whatever personifications of Fate and deities have the mercy to listen.

He is pacing. Theodore is the first to notice the noise, around four-thirty, and in a low groan, he informs Draco that he hopes his father castrates him, then stuffs a pillow over his head in an attempt to go back to sleep. It's this that wakes Blaise, who, after rubbing the sleep from his eyes, catches Draco by the elbow on one of his rounds and drags him into his bed.

Draco automatically tries to resist, but to no avail, as always; Blaise is too bloody strong for his own good sometimes. He would feel uncomfortable if it were anyone else dragging him into bed like this, even Harry, pulling him in and closing the drapes to bathe him in total darkness, and tucking his back up against their chest. Blaise is a big, warm comfort and he sags against him, burying his head in the pillow. Blaise shifts, still mostly asleep, and manages to throw the covers over him.

It's not as if this is the first time this has happened; Draco tends to be restless and unable to sleep when he's stressed, and at some point in their fifth year, Blaise started dragging him into bed, and it's never failed to put Draco back to sleep.

The next time he wakes, it's due to an insistent rapping on the door. Draco groans and burrows deeper under the warm covers, and Blaise makes a noise of discomfort as Draco elbows him in the stomach.

'Morning to you, too,' Draco hears him mutter by his shoulder. 'Oh, hell, what _is_ that?'

The rap-tap-tap on the door is not going away. If anything, it's getting louder. Draco curses and burrows his head under a pillow.

'If one of you does not get that fucking bird in the next ten seconds,' comes a very agitated voice from across the room, 'I swear your days of buggering will be over for good.'

It's hardly privileged information that Slytherins are not Morning People.

'Nothing is better than hearing your golden voice in the morning,' Blaise informs Theodore, stretching. 'Have I ever told you that?'

_Rap-a-tap-tap._

The drapes are still closed so Draco is saved from seeing Theodore's look of utter distaste at seeing him and Blaise sharing a bed. 'Five fucking seconds and I'm turning your bed into a bonfire, Zabini,' comes the muffled threat.

'I got it,' Draco says before Blaise can get up. He rolls out of the bed, pushing the drapes aside and pointedly ignoring the eyeroll Theodore graces him with before turning over.

Opening the door, Draco winces, the sharp claws of the owl pinching his forearm as it waits for him to take the letter from its beak. It hoots once before taking off back up the staircase towards the common room and Draco unfolds the letter, squinting. It's from Snape; twenty minutes, his office. Lovely.

In half that time, Draco's showered, brushed, dressed and pacing again. Blaise is fully awake by now but doesn't attempt to stop him. Theodore is so quiet that Draco wonders idly if Blaise decided to Stun him while he was in the shower.

'It'll be all right,' Blaise says for the fourth time.

Draco gives a non-committal grunt.

'Do you know what you're going to tell him?'

'Nope.'

Blaise deliberates for a minute, and winces as Goyle gives a monumental snore. 'Ever consider just telling him the truth?'

'Hi, Dad, yes, terribly sorry about ruining your reputation and all, and I hate to break it to you like this, but your only heir's a certified shirtlifter, who, by the way, intends to run off and snog your worst enemy.' Draco looks at him. 'How's that sound to you? Think he'll take it well?'

Blaise shrugs and leans back against one of the wooden posts of his four-poster. 'Won't really make a difference either way, will it?'

Draco's already five minutes late as it is. He balls his fists and, without answering, heads upstairs to the common room. Snape's office is just down the hall from the entrance to their common room, and it takes less than a minute to make the trip, but Draco is hesitating outside the door until he's another five minutes late.

Waiting isn't going to make it any better, he tells himself. Just holding off the inevitable...

Draco opens the door, then stands in the doorway and regards them both; mid-argument from the looks of it, Snape standing up from his chair, both fists on the desk as he leans over it, greasy hair and large, hooked nose framing the award-worthy scowl carved into his clammy skin; and his father, always the proud, erect figure in a room, rigid and blonde, with his nose lifted high and pale eyes narrowed in disdain, a look of utmost contempt gracing his features.

'I told you,' Snape says curtly. 'The boy has become insolent. What would you have me do?'

Lucius turns to face his son. 'Is this true?' he demands coldly.

'Sorry,' Draco says, not moving, 'is _what_ true?'

Lucius' expression flickers momentarily, but his calm demeanour remains intact. 'Do not feign ignorance with me, Draco. _Is it true?'_

Draco inhales slowly and folds his arms. 'Yes,' he says after a moment, holding his father's gaze—a testament to nerve Draco was unaware he possessed, because this is a rather difficult thing to do. 'It's true.'

Lucius regards him impassively, but Draco knows better than to trust in appearances when it comes to father; there is something dangerous brewing behind those calm grey eyes. 'All of it?'

Draco shrugs. 'I don't know what you've heard,' he admits. 'But yes, probably.'

Snape closes his eyes slowly, painfully, as if praying for patience or perhaps for Lucius to find the will to refrain from cursing his son right here and now. Lucius, however, has much more self-control than his son, and manages to contain the impulsive urge to kill.

'You will pack your things, Draco,' Lucius says after a moment's pause, 'and return here, without delay.'

Draco tenses. 'Why?'

Lucius raises an eyebrow. 'Because I'm here to take you home. Immediately.'

Draco stares and considers this for a moment; he is, after all, of age, and it is perfectly within his rights to refuse this order—that is, he reminds himself, if he is willing to suffer the consequences of disobeying his father, his father who is the King of Retribution when it comes to insubordination. But Draco feels a surge of rebellious resolution and folds his arms; he is tired of bending to this fear of his father, someone he used to admire and respect but for whom he now feels little more than abhorrence and contempt.

For now is the first time in Draco's life that he's known what _he_ wants, and he is able to decide whether or not to choose it, even if to do so means ostracising himself from everything that has been spoon-fed to him by his family from birth.

'I told you to go and pack your things,' Lucius repeats, his voice tip-toeing on the edge of impatience.

Draco lifts his chin. 'No,' he says. 'I won't.'

There is an inevitable pause as Lucius surveys his son and Draco holds his gaze, and in his peripheral vision, Draco sees Snape reach inside his robes for his wand.

'I seem to have suffered a momentary lapse,' Lucius says smoothly, eyes murderous. 'For a moment, I was sure my son just renounced his inheritance.'

'Draco,' Snape says carefully, 'please _think_ about what you are doing.'

'I have,' Draco replies with a shrug. He reaches for the door as he backs out of the office, pausing to glance at them both. 'And you know what? You can both go to hell.'

: : :


	6. Pirates and Dags and Really Bad Eggs

**Summary**: Pirate songs in the Gryffindor common room, Blaise is out for blood, Harry is very terrible at the Sneaking Thing, and what can Draco say? His public adores him.

: : :

Chapter Six  
Pirates And Dags And Really Bad Eggs

: : :

**5:30pm** _(that afternoon)_

'I've got a lov-a-ley bunch 'a coconuts, dee da lee dee da lee—'

'What is _he_ doing in here?' Ron asks loudly.

'—there they are 'a standin' in a row, bump, baa, dum—'

'Oh,' says Hermione, 'just, you know, visiting.'

'—big ones, small ones, some as big as your head—'

'Visiting?' Ron demands. '_Visiting?_ What the bloody hell for?'

'—give 'em a twist, a _flick_ of the wrist, s'what the showman said—'

'Blaise,' Hermione says firmly, and Blaise stops singing, though he's still grinning rather alarmingly. 'Ron, I've already told you about this. Will you relax and at least _pretend_ to be an adult about it?'

'Relax?' Ron demands and points an accusatory finger at Blaise. 'You never said anything about bringing him in _here!'_

'Here' is actually the Gryffindor common room, in which Hermione is sitting on the sofa and Blaise has commandeered the best armchair for himself and is still humming his tune. It is Saturday afternoon and the room is packed with people, and Ron is furious; Slytherins in their common room! It's not only _wrong_ in every sense of the word, it's right up there with treason and probably sacrilege, and if Hermione isn't careful, she's going to be smote by the Almighty Gryffindor Gods.

'Weasley, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't like my singing,' Blaise says, looking hurt.

He speaks with a mild, romantic accent, rolling some of his syllables, and is splayed sideways in the armchair, as if it is a throne and he is a pirate who has just sacked the king, with his arms balanced on his knees and long legs propped against the side. His dark hair is purposely mussed and his skin is something like three shades lighter than Dean's, the finely bronzed tone of one who has spent far too much time in the sun.

He's wearing a wolfish smirk and leers, his expression that of someone who is very handsome and knows it; Lavender is giving him longing looks from across the room, and Parvati, rather than reprimanding him, only squeals and runs off, giggling, when he idly lifts her skirt with the tip of his wand as she walks past.

'Hermione,' Ron says furiously, 'I know this whole correspondent thing has sort of gone to your head, but I really don't care if he's your long lost _brother_, he has no right to be in our common room!'

'Long lost brother?' Blaise looks at Hermione with a slightly alarmed expression. 'You might have told me about that _before_ last night, signorina. Incest is a sin, you know.'

Ron, who, by this point, is approximately the colour of an eggplant, twitches rather violently when laughter is Hermione's only response.

'Stop being horrible,' she tells Blaise, who is looking quite pleased with the effect he is having on Ron. 'Oh, Ron, he's _joking_, honestly. Now sit down before you fall down.'

'By all means, fall down if you like, I'll laugh you scorn,' Blaise adds cheerily. Ron looks as if he might strangle Blaise, so Hermione smartly takes him by the belt and pulls him down on the couch beside her. 'Anyway,' Blaise continues, 'as much fun as it is to take the mickey out of you, I'm actually waiting for Potter.'

'Harry?' Ron asks, immediately assuming the role of Loyal And Protective Best Mate. 'What do you want with Harry?'

'To kill him,' Blaise replies. 'What else?'

The only thing keeping Ron from leaping at Blaise in a vain attempt to gouge his eyes out is Hermione's grip on his belt; she is uncannily strong for such a small girl. 'Must you?' she asks Blaise, not unkindly, trying without much luck to hide a smile. Ron looks furious; he folds his arms, muttering to himself. Blaise blows him a kiss before breaking into song again.

'We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot,  
_Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!_  
We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot,  
_Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!'_

'He's not so bad, you know,' Hermione says to Ron, keeping her voice low—though Blaise doesn't seem to be paying attention anyway. 'He's actually quite smart, once you get past the jocosity.'

'He's a _Slytherin_, Hermione!' Ron hisses. 'He could be—spying, or something!'

Hermione looks across at Blaise, who has conjured a large pirate hat with a fluffy white feather for himself; he is still singing loudly, and brandishes his wand like a sword at anyone that wanders too close. 'Ron,' she says patiently, 'does he _look_ like he's spying?'

'He's lulling us into a false sense of security,' Ron persists. 'And trying to steal our women! Did you see what he did to Parvati!'

Hermione sighs and rolls her eyes. 'He's not spying and I can tell you for _certain_ that he is not going to steal any of "our" women.'

'Oh, and how do _you_ know?' Ron demands. 'What _were_ you doing with him last night?'

Hermione closes her book and gives Ron a very severe look. Under the chorus of '_Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me!'_ she says very simply, 'Because Blaise is _gay_, Ron.'

'We're rascals, scoundrels, villains and knaves,  
_Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!_  
We're devils and black sheep, we're really bad eggs!  
_Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!'_

'He's _what?_' Ron asks, blinking.

'He's Italian,' she says, sighing, and opens up her book again.

There is a muffled shriek as Blaise leans over to the next armchair and sticks his tongue in Seamus' ear. 'Yeh know yeh love it, yeh Irish dag!' he calls after Seamus as he flees to the boys' dormitories, cursing. Blaise smirks at Hermione, who is stifling a laugh, and Ron, who is gaping and looking mildly disgusted. 'He'll be back,' Blaise assures them. 'Once he's had a few shots of rum, anyway. Yo ho ho, and all.'

'That is disgusting,' says Ron.

'I know you dream about me, baby,' Blaise says, winking at him.

'Eurgh,' says Ron.

Blaise raises an eyebrow. 'Does Potter know you're such a homophobe?'

'He's not,' Hermione says over the retching. 'I think it's just that it's... well... that it's _you_. Being a Slytherin and all.'

'Woe,' Blaise exclaims. 'First Finnigan, now even the Weasley does not approve. I shall have to drown my sorrows in cheap liquor and puttane, for I have shamed the house of my forefathers.'

'I should hope that isn't necessary,' Hermione says. 'I thought you didn't like that sort of thing? At least not the _puttane_.'

'Hey, hey, be fair,' Blaise says defensively. _'Everybody _likes puttane.'

Ron stops gagging. 'What the hell is puttane?' he asks.

'Maybe when you're older,' says Blaise, waving his hand dismissively. 'I will not be the one responsible for corrupting the morals of Gryffindor folk.'

'Isn't that the purpose of Slytherins?' Hermione asks, eyes still on her book. 'To defile our morals?'

'Blasphemy,' Blaise says, gasping. 'I only defile by love, not war.'

'That is disgusting,' Ron says again.

'Il mio amore è soltanto per voi, signore,' Blaise says with a flourish.

'What?' says Ron. Hermione giggles.

'This is amusing,' comments Blaise with a look at Hermione. 'I think you're the only other person at this school that can understand me. Well, besides Salene, anyway.'

'Who?' says Ron, growing even more confused.

'Professor Vector,' Hermione clarifies. 'Do I even _want_ to know why you call her by her first name?'

'Probably not,' Blaise admits with a lecherous smirk. Ron looks so close to bursting that Blaise finds the kindness somewhere in his heart to continue, 'She's my aunt, actually. Don't hurt yourself, Weasley.'

'This is what I mean!' Ron says to Hermione. 'He's just a nasty pervert like the rest of them, and he even said it himself, he's here to give Harry a hard time and—'

'Speak of the Devil,' Blaise interrupts as Harry walks into the common room. Harry stops when he sees Blaise. He seems slightly suspicious—though not angry—and he shoots a questioning look at Hermione, but Blaise speaks up before she can say anything. 'I need a word, Potter,' he says.

'Er,' says Harry warily. 'Yeah, sure. What?'

'Alone,' Blaise clarifies, and then, smirking, adds, 'and Finnigan's already claimed your dormitory for the rest of the week.'

'Ah,' says Harry. 'Erm. Alright.' He motions with his head for Blaise to follow him; they both leave the common room while Hermione tightens her grip on Ron's belt to keep him from going after them.

As soon as the Fat Lady closes, leaving them alone in the empty corridor, Harry finds himself shoved up against the wall with Blaise unnervingly close to his face; the Fat Lady _tsks_ and says, 'Now, now, play nice, boys.' Blaise's cheerful demeanour is gone and he looks like he might clobber Harry, who is actually a little worried because Blaise is quite tall.

'Sorry,' Harry says dryly, 'when you said "a word", was that Slytherin code for "your blood"?'

'Look, Potter,' Blaise says evenly, leaning close and forcing Harry further into the wall. 'I don't really like you, and I don't particularly hate you—in fact, we could say that I really couldn't care less either way whether you exist or not.'

'I see,' says Harry, raising an eyebrow. 'So, then, is this wall thing just some kind of Slytherin kink the rest of us don't know about?'

'Shut up,' Blaise commands, and Harry shuts up, but fixes him with a glare for good measure. 'My point is that I really wouldn't give a damn if you fucked off out a window and we never had to see the likes of you again, except that you seem to have had some sort of dire effect on a very good friend of mine, and I'll be damned if some be-spec'd little martyr is going to ruin his life.'

Harry narrows his eyes. 'I'm not. We've already talked about it. We're done. I'm over it. Ruination averted. So,' Harry says, folding his arms, 'I don't see what the problem is. It was his call, anyway, and he made it.'

'Do they feed you Gryffindors stupid pills?' Blaise says impatiently. 'You really think it's that simple, don't you?'

'What fucking business is it of yours, anyway?' Harry snaps indignantly. 'Whether it's simple or not, it doesn't involve you, and I sure as hell don't have to explain myself to you, or anyone else.'

Blaise is glaring at Harry as if he'd like nothing better than to stamp him into the floor. He looks away and takes a slow breath. 'His father was here today,' he finally says, very quietly. 'Draco hasn't been out of his room since.'

Harry looks at him for a moment, and then apprehension kicks in. 'Lucius was here?' he asks, suddenly worried. 'Why?'

'Oh, I dunno,' Blaise deadpans as he looks at Harry again, 'couldn't have anything to do with you snogging his little prodigy in front of the entire school, could it?'

'What? I didn't start that—look!' he snarls as Blaise rolls his eyes. 'That was _his_ decision, he didn't have to do it!'

'You didn't have to come storming over in the middle of breakfast, either!' Blaise snaps. 'You _did_ start that, Potter, and I swear to the Fates that if you don't finish it, _I_ am going to finish _you_.'

Harry stares at him, his anger fading into a weird sort of understanding as he finally realises why Blaise has come here. Harry looks away and nods bleakly. 'All right,' he concedes. 'All right, I'll talk to him.'

'Damn right you will,' Blaise says. '_Purus magus_.'

Harry blinks. 'What?'

Blaise backs up, glancing at Harry once more. 'Password,' he says, then turns and walks away.

: : :

Sneaking into the Slytherin common room presents little challenge, especially with the advantage of knowing the password. It's surprisingly free of older students; where the majority of fourth- to seventh-year Slytherins go on a Saturday night is a mystery to Harry, and he decides he probably does not want to know.

Unlike the Gryffindor dormitories, which are above the common room, the Slytherins dorms are down a thin, twisting staircase that burrows further under the lake. Harry pauses outside the door, hand hovering above the knob, listening for a sign of life from inside; but the seventh-year boys' dormitory is silent, and Harry wonders if Draco's asleep, or perhaps not even there at all.

Taking a deep breath, he turns the knob and eases the door open slowly. It lets out a small, soft creak that sounds far too loud in the surrounding silence. Harry waits to see if he's been found out, but the room remains quiet. Mustering his nerves, Harry pushes the door open enough to squeeze inside, and shuts it quietly behind him.

Draco is, in fact, in the room, and not asleep. He's sitting on his bed, one leg hanging off the side, his back propped against one of the posts. There's an assortment of parchment, a few quills and an ink bottle spread haphazardly on the duvet. Draco's reading one of the letters, eyes slowly, almost lazily, moving from one side of the parchment to the other.

'How long did you know it was me?'

Harry starts at the question, but Draco doesn't look up. 'I can hear you breathing,' he explains, 'and even if Blaise had stolen your cloak, _he_ never makes a noise opening the door.' Now he looks up at approximately where Harry is standing, invisible. 'You're really terrible at this sneaking thing.'

Harry waits another moment before sliding off the cloak, doing his best not to look sheepish. 'Can't be that bad,' he says, 'or I'd have been expelled by now.'

'With all the rules you've broken, you _should_ be, poster boy,' Draco says. 'Speaking of rules, you coming in here violates about every principal rule of Slytherin and Gryffindor conduct,' he continues. 'By all rights I should hex you.'

'Temporary truce?' Harry offers. 'I promise not to tarnish your reputation.'

'Too late, but all right.' Draco looks away, back down at the letters. 'So. How long?'

Harry rolls the cloak up in his arms, hesitating. 'Since the start of the holidays,' he says finally. 'When Blaise stayed to meet up with Hermione.'

'Granger?' Draco looks at him again, torn between surprise, disgust, and mild comprehension. 'His correspondent was _Granger?'_

'He didn't tell you?'

'He said it'd give me an aneurysm,' Draco says. 'The man is a true friend—unlike _some people_, who like to cause me unnecessary amounts of trauma.'

'I'd hardly call losing a Quidditch match traumatic,' Harry says, trying to keep a straight face.

'Try losing them for six years in a row,' Draco replies curtly, but Harry can see he is trying not to smile. Then he sits up and tosses a few letters at Harry's feet; Harry glances at them, then back up at Draco, who keeps his gaze fixed on the sheets of parchment. 'You knew since the start of the holidays,' he repeats.

Harry squats down and fingers through the letters. Some of the lines have been traced over and worried with a quill: _I don't even know what you look like and I still dream about you...I couldn't loathe you if I wanted to...you don't sound like someone I'd dislike...I think about you a lot...I want to kiss you...I love talking to you...I still want to meet you... _They are all from letters he wrote during the holidays—letters he wrote after he knew whom he was writing to—and Harry furrows his brow before looking back up. Draco watches him with curious eyes.

'Yes,' Harry says. 'I knew Nott was in trouble for not writing to his correspondent, and I knew Crabbe and Goyle weren't—' he pauses, thinking that now is perhaps not the best time to insult Draco's friends, '—I knew it couldn't be them, and once Blaise met up with Hermione...' Harry trails off, realising that he's rambling. _Yes,_ he continues in his head, _I wrote all of that when I knew who you were._ 'And I meant it,' he says aloud; 'all of it.'

Nerve is something Draco has always credited Harry with, and for good reason, it appears, because an abundance of courage is the only explanation for how he can keep looking Draco in the eye as he admits this. Draco raises a pale eyebrow. 'Did you.'

'Did _you?_' Harry counters.

Draco pauses, then sighs and sits back, letting his back rest against the far post. 'Do you even realise how utterly bizarre this is?'

'What do you mean?'

'This. Us.' Draco is leering and gives Harry a bit of a lopsided smile. 'Sitting in the same room without throwing curses or insults, much less having romantic liaisons in the snow.'

Harry somehow manages to avoid flushing or, indeed, looking embarrassed at all—another show of the Nerve. Instead, he grins back. 'World hasn't ended,' he says with a shrug.

'Yet,' Draco adds. 'Don't tempt the Four Horsemen.'

'You didn't answer my question,' Harry reminds him.

'I know,' Draco says. 'I was trying to avoid it. You're completely incapable of subtlety. All you Gryffindors are.'

'Still waiting,' Harry says, smirking.

Draco's head falls back against the bedpost and he looks at the canopy of his four-poster. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes. 'I didn't think so,' he says finally. 'Not after I found out it was you. That was a very dirty trick, by the way. Worthy of a Slytherin, really; I didn't think you had it in you. Probably why I let myself believe that it wasn't at all possible that it _was _you.'

'Yes, well, sorry for that,' Harry says, 'but would you have stayed even a minute if I'd shown up as myself?'

'No,' Draco admits. 'I probably would have hexed you the moment you stepped in the door. I really didn't want anything to do with you.' His eyes are still closed so Harry waits; several moments go by and then Draco opens his eyes and looks at Harry. 'But then I found myself leaping over the table the next morning, so what does that tell you?'

'That you're in denial?' Harry offers, looking smug at the deadpan stare he receives in response. 'What did it tell _you?'_

'That I am insane,' Draco reasons. 'That I've ruined my reputation as a Slytherin. That acting on impulse is a Very Bad Idea. My father is going to kill me; you do know that, don't you?'

'Why would he?' Harry says. 'After Goyle smashed Colin's camera there wasn't any evidence.'

'Only about five hundred eyewitnesses.'

Harry shrugs. 'Even so, you called it off. Crisis averted.'

'About that,' Draco begins, then pauses. It's difficult to articulate what, exactly, he wants to say on the matter. Harry raises his eyebrows. 'I still hate you—' He winces; this is probably a bad place to start. Harry blinks. 'I do. I mean, well, at least, I dislike you a lot. You're still an arrogant, righteous little pillock that deserves to be pounded into the floor.' He pauses and smirks. 'Only now, I'm sort of thinking the floor should be replaced with a desk.'

Harry actually laughs; Draco smiles a little, but it quickly disappears. 'My father was here today,' he says suddenly, and Harry stops laughing. 'But I guess you already knew that, otherwise you wouldn't be here.'

'Yeah,' Harry says. 'Via a grapevine named Zabini that threatened to choke me for destroying your life.'

'Mm,' Draco says. 'Yes, well, sorry about that. Blaise can be rather protective. In any case, Father was pretty livid from the looks of it.'

'What happened?'

Draco shrugs. 'I told him to go to hell.'

If Harry had been drinking, he would have spluttered. 'You _what?'_

'I told him to take a long walk off a short pier,' Draco reiterates. 'Felt pretty good. Still feels pretty good, as a matter of fact. And will most likely continue to do so until he disinherits me from everything I own and or hires an assassin to remove the stain of my existence.' Harry is goggling at him, and looks rather silly. 'You're gaping, Potter. It's very unbecoming.'

Harry abruptly stops. 'He wouldn't really try to kill you,' he says. Draco blinks at him, and Harry asks, 'Would he?'

'Look,' Draco says, changing the subject, 'let me make one thing very clear here: I don't want you to think I'm doing this for you. Because I'm not. I may have done it _because _of you, and this stupid, insane, utterly disastrous project they've made us participate in, but I'm not actually doing it _for _of you.'

'Okay,' Harry says. 'I don't think you are.'

Draco regards him with some surprise and a little suspicion. 'You don't?'

Harry shrugs. 'No, I don't,' he says truthfully.

'Good,' Draco says, sounding relieved, and sits up. 'Well. That's that then, I suppose.'

'I suppose,' Harry agrees, standing.

Draco looks at the floor. Harry looks at his feet. Draco's hands grip his knees and Harry's are thrust into his pockets.

'I guess I should...' Harry pauses awkwardly, '...well, you know—er, yeah,' he finishes lamely and turns to go.

Harry has barely taken a step when Draco stands, takes Harry's elbows and pulls him back against his front, and Harry feels Draco's breath, his lips and the tip of his nose on the back of his neck. Draco's chest presses into Harry's shoulder blades and his hands run down Harry's forearms and off, onto Harry's hips; he holds him there.

'I did mean it, you know,' Draco murmurs into Harry's collar. 'And if you weren't some emotionally-near-sighted bloody Gryffindor, you'd see that it's plain as day that I fancy you entirely too much for it to be healthy.'

Harry takes a deep breath, his shoulders pressing back against Draco as he does. 'Yes, well, we already established that I was unhealthy,' he says a bit breathlessly. 'Even in small doses, remember?'

Draco's nose and chin move against his neck as he nods. 'A large dose is probably going kill me.'

'Your father's going to kill you anyway,' Harry reasons.

Draco lets out a small laugh against his neck and Harry feels his hair being dishevelled by the hot breath. 'Catch twenty-two, indeed.'

Harry unrolls the cloak in his arms. He suddenly has an idea. 'Come with me,' he says, turning his head to the side. He can't see Draco, but his shadow is visible over his shoulder. 'I want to take you somewhere.'

Harry thinks its a bit odd that Draco doesn't even ask where he's going to take him, and something warms in his chest as Draco simply says, 'Yeah, okay'. Harry watches Draco's shadow as it moves; Draco goes back to the bed to retrieve his cloak, and then Harry tosses his Invisibility Cloak over the both of them. He pauses—they're very close together, so close that once again the tiny difference in height is obvious, and they can taste each other's breath and the tip of Draco's nose rubs against Harry's and Harry's lips brush lightly against Draco's chin.

Draco leans in just as the door to the dormitory bursts open, admitting Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, who sweeps the room with her eyes and places her hands on her hips. Draco and Harry stumble backwards together to the nearest wall and Draco curses under his breath.

'What?' Harry whispers. 'They can't see us.'

'They can see _those_,' Draco hisses, and nods at the letters, which are still all over the floor by his bed.

'Like I _told_ _you,_ he isn't in here,' Blaise says, though he looks rather relieved at being able to say this.

'Bollocks,' Pansy says. 'I saw him in here after breakfast. Where have you hidden him?'

'I haven't _hidden_ him anywhere,' Blaise snaps. 'Vince and Greg are out checking the pitch; they're probably dragging him back as we speak.'

Pansy isn't listening, however. She wrings her hands together and begins to pace. 'Millicent said she saw his father here this morning, too—oh, if he's done anything to Draco, I am going to _kill_ Harry Potter.'

'Don't worry,' Draco whispers quietly, grinning at the indignant look that appears on Harry's face, 'she threatens to do that at least once a week.'

'I thought Blaise was the protective one,' Harry hisses back, still looking put out.

'What can I say,' Draco whispers in his ear. 'My public adores me. You'll be offering to commit suicide to ease my suffering in no time, just you wait.'

'Argh!' Pansy shrieks, rounding on Blaise, who is still stood in the doorway. 'This is all your fault, you knew about this, I _know_ you did, and you still let it happen and let him go to breakfast and now look—look!' she insists, taking him by the collar. He ignores her grip, most likely because he is very tall and she is very small and it probably makes very little difference to him whether she hangs on or not. Her eyes are beginning to water, Harry notes with surprise. 'Why did you leave him alone? You know better than to leave him alone!'

She releases him and whirls round, beginning to pace once more but stopping when she sees the letters scattered all over Draco's bed and the floor. Blaise sees them at the same time as she does, and Harry can feel Draco tense beside him. Pansy moves towards them, but Blaise intervenes, dashing after her and lifting her swiftly over his shoulder, earning another shriek from her, this time in protest.

'Put me down!' she orders, pounding her fists on his back. 'Zabini, I swear to Merlin, if you don't—'

Blaise puts her down just outside the open doorway. 'Pans, he'll be _fine_. But if he comes back here and finds you've been rooting through his things, you know he'll throw a fit, so will you please—'

'_No,_ I will _not_, don't you try to placate me, Zabini! Open that bloody—' Her protests become muffled as Blaise closes the door behind him. Taking the opportunity, Draco slips out from under the cloak and quickly gathers the letters, locking them securely in the bottom of his trunk. As he shoves it back under his bed, Harry comes up behind him and slips the cloak back over his head. Draco turns around and looks at him, tilting his head to the side.

'Where were we?' he says. Harry breaks into a grin, and Draco kisses it.

: : :


	7. That's Why You

**Summary**: Draco's obsessed with sex and it's all Harry's fault; Blaise is once again on the warpath, Slytherins raid the Hospital Wing, and too much Harry really can be bad for Draco's health.

: : :

Chapter Seven  
That's Why You

: : :

'Where the hell are we?' Draco says, half an hour later. 'Are we almost out of this God-forsaken place?'

'Nearly. Shh.'

'Don't shush me, Potter. If I have bugs in my hair, I swear, I'm going to make you eat them.'

Harry rolls his eyes; he has quickly discovered that it is no use telling Draco to be quiet, because Draco never stops talking. Telling Draco to be quiet is like telling Hermione to put down a book—good effort that goes to waste.

It's fine, though, because in a weird sort of way, Harry finds the chatter endearing.

'Here,' Harry says, stopping before the trapdoor and holding it open. 'Go in, and try not to touch anything.'

Draco eyes the passage warily before giving Harry an accusatory look. 'What is this place?'

'It's fine, just go.'

'If it's fine then why all the secrecy?'

'Because,' Harry says, and angles himself behind Draco to shove him forward into the Shrieking Shack, 'if you run out of here screaming like you did from the Forbidden Forest, someone is bound to hear it and I really don't want them to seal off this passageway.'

'That wasn't screaming! That was raising the alarm! And why would I—oh…' Draco stops as Harry closes the door; he looks around very quickly. 'Oh _no_, Potter, this is _not _what I think it is. _Please _tell me it's not what I think it is.'

'Okay,' Harry says with a shrug, attempting to mollify him. 'It's not what you think it is.'

'You're a terrible liar,' Draco tells him. He is still looking around suspiciously. 'Why, why, _why _did you bring us into a haunted house? Do you do this for fun? Is having frequent tangos with death your official hobby or something? Is that it?'

'It would certainly explain a lot,' Harry says, considering. 'And it's not haunted, come on.'

Draco hurries to keep up with him as Harry climbs the stairs out of the basement towards the ground floor. 'How do you_ know_ it's not haunted?'

'Because,' Harry says, and pauses on the stairs. He considers something for a moment, then looks over his shoulder at Draco. 'D'you remember Professor Lupin?'

'The werewolf?' Draco asks. Then his voice rises several pitches as he hisses, looking alarmed, 'There's a _werewolf _in here?'

'No. Well, not anymore.' Harry continues up the stairs with Draco jogging to keep up. 'Lupin was a werewolf before he came to Hogwarts. Dumbledore built this passageway so Lupin could come out once a month to transform and not miss too much schoolwork. The Whomping Willow was planted to keep anyone from wandering in on him by accident.'

'So the screams people heard—'

'Were him, yeah,' Harry says as he reaches the main floor and dusts off his jeans. 'This place was never haunted.'

Draco relaxes slightly at this bit of information and looks sideways at Harry. 'How did you find all that out?'

'Er,' says Harry. 'It's a long story.'

'Is there any sex?'

'What?' Harry asks, startled.

'Sex,' Draco repeats. 'All good stories involve sex. If there isn't any sex, then I don't want to hear it.'

'You're obsessed with sex,' Harry tells him.

'Hormones,' Draco replies. 'Not my fault. I blame Mother Nature. And you.'

'Me?' Harry asks as he opens the door. 'Why me?'

Draco catches him by the wrist as they step outside. There is snow everywhere, and everything is white and crisp and sparkling prettily in the setting sun. Draco yanks Harry back roughly, making him stumble, and catches Harry with his lips. It hurts, but not badly, and Harry manages to say 'Mmrf' against Draco's mouth before returning the favour. Draco's lips are cold and chapped and very dry, but the inside of his mouth is hot and slick and tastes vaguely of cocoa and mint. It also tastes like saliva, but so does Harry, so he doesn't really notice that. Kissing Draco is like sipping a really good hot chocolate by a warm fire after a very long walk in the cold. It feels good. It tastes good.

He decides he really likes the way Draco tastes; it's something Harry thinks he could get used to.

Harry also finds it very hard to think while they are kissing, especially when Draco is doing those little things he does with his tongue that leave Harry tingling and buzzing, and it feels like something inside his brain has dislocated from the rest of him. So Harry has no idea how long they have been kissing, and he only notices that there is snow in his hair and ears and eyelashes and that his feet are getting very cold when Draco pulls away, licking his own lips nervously.

Draco lingers close to Harry. His pupils are very dilated despite the persistent light of the sinking sun, and they look like two black mirrors inside silver rings. His left hand is still resting against Harry's jaw, his touch very light and warm. Draco bites his lower lip and grins at the same time.

'That's why you,' he says, his voice a little hoarse. He runs his thumb across Harry's lower lip, and Harry bites it. 'Ow! Prick,' he says, pulling his hand away.

Harry smirks at him. He is happy that Draco's smiling, happy that he is managing to distract Draco from his problems and very happy that he is able to kiss him again. And he is happy that Draco has come here with him and is looking as nervous as Harry feels and—and bending down to scoop up a handful of snow to stuff in his collar.

'Aaufrghk,' Harry splutters, ducking and shaking his head, trying to clear the snow out of his scarf before it all slides down his shirt. Draco is grinning like a fox and as Harry recovers, he scoops up more snow and takes off at a run, Harry on his heels. Draco makes a snowball and hurls it back at Harry with very good aim, but Harry is not the best Seeker Hogwarts' has seen in a century for nothing, and he catches the snowball in midair by reflex and throws it back, and it makes a loud _smack _when it hits Draco in the back of the neck.

Draco doesn't fall, but he stumbles, and it's enough for Harry to catch up and tackle him, and they both hit the snow with a muffled _pwunff_. Harry is on top, and he raises himself up on his knees just until Draco rolls over, then sits on Draco's chest before he can wriggle out from under him. Draco has snow all over his robes and hair and stuck in his eyebrows and is laughing so hard it's making Harry's thighs vibrate, so Harry shifts, moving his hips further down, so he is sitting just below Draco's stomach.

Draco abruptly stops laughing. He is watching Harry now and bites his lip again, and Harry has to resist the urge to lean down and kiss it.

Instead, he grabs a fistful of snow and shoves it up the front of Draco's shirt.

Draco makes a constrained, strangled sort of noise and wriggles violently, nearly uprooting Harry, but Harry is determined and holds him down. Eventually Draco quits admonishing unflattering adjectives at him and stops moving, but he is still breathing very heavily. Every pant produces a little puff of white breath and his cheeks and ears are rather pink and his hands are gripping Harry's thighs extremely hard.

Harry shifts again so he is resting right on top of Draco's hips, and Draco's breaths are coming sharper and quicker and now his neck is pink too. It's a good look on him, Harry thinks, being splayed on the ground and flushed with his hair everywhere, mouth slightly agape and vibrantly red against the backdrop of snow.

Draco shifts now, or maybe just raises his hips as an experiment, but whatever the reason, it makes Harry's mind flicker briefly and he feels like there are about a hundred Snitches fluttering inside of his stomach. Draco notices this and does it again, more deliberately and for longer this time, and Harry's eyes roll back and close briefly because that feels entirely too good to be possible, and he should probably breathe sometime soon but he doesn't want to risk ending the feeling in his groin because if that happens he'll probably die.

It feels... it feels like electricity rushing through his body, making every hair stand on end, stinging and prickling, and it makes him shudder violently—it feels like taking a steep dive on his Firebolt and pulling out just in time, only instead of fading, the feeling grows stronger, the harder Draco presses against him, and Harry presses back and feels all of his insides suddenly melt and pool between his legs.

'Hell,' Draco murmurs. His eyes are closed now, and his breathing is ragged and uneven. His hands are still on Harry's legs, but he isn't gripping hard anymore; rather, he is rubbing them up and down Harry's thighs, thumbs massaging the defining line of muscle through the denim. His neck arches with his body as Harry grinds against him slow and hard, and his mouth is open and gasping for air and Harry can't watch him any longer without leaning down to kiss that soft spot under his chin. He kisses Draco's jaw and his throat and feels Draco swallow against his lips, and utter something unintelligible.

'You know,' Harry says against Draco's skin, his voice somehow both soft and thick at the same time, 'when I first figured out who you were, I couldn't believe it. I tried to deny it for a while...' He moves his mouth up the slick curve of Draco's neck, feathering kisses and licking and nibbling and he pauses where Draco's jaw meets his ear. 'I didn't want it to be you. I almost convinced myself that you were right; that we shouldn't meet. I knew you'd feel the same. But then I read your letter again...'

Harry has one hand in the snow, holding himself up. It's growing numb with the cold but he doesn't care, because his other hand is under Draco's shirt, and this hand is also probably cold because Draco's skin feels extremely hot under his fingertips as he skims them just beneath Draco's belt. 'You remember the one,' Harry purrs in his ear. 'Your intellectual porn?'

Draco makes a noise suggestive of great agony, perhaps even dying, and Harry nuzzles Draco's ear and jaw with his nose and feels the edge of his boxers under the belt, and he slips two fingers under the elastic band. Harry is painfully hard now and is pretty sure Draco must be too, and he confirms this by pressing against him again, and this time Draco shudders underneath him. Draco's hands move up Harry's thighs to his hips and take them in a vice-like grip as Draco lifts his head.

'This—Potter—_fuck,'_ he says in Harry's ear. Harry nibbles his earlobe to encourage him, or distract him, or maybe just to hear that strangled noise Draco makes again. 'Bloody hell,' he hisses, and Harry licks the outer shell of Draco's ear with the tip of his tongue, 'I can't think when you—' Harry is sucking on his earlobe now, 'when you—' the fingers in Draco's waistband slip a few centimetres deeper, and Draco gives an involuntary spasm and his hands move from Harry's hips to his ribs and hold on so tight that it stings, _'fucking—cold.' _

Draco sucks in a breath and forces out very quickly, 'I can't feel the back of my legs anymore and I think my spine's frozen and my hair is soaked, so as incredibly, insanely, retardedly good as the rest of it feels, Potter, I think I might actually die if you don't get off me right now.'

Harry stops kissing his throat and sits up to stare at him. Draco is extremely pink now, from his collar right up to his cheekbones, and his pupils are still dilated, but Harry sees that he is also shivering quite badly. Harry quickly rolls off and helps him to his feet with shaking hands. Draco wavers slightly as the blood in his body realigns with gravity and Harry uses a hand to steady him and mumbles, 'Sorry, I didn't—I mean, I was—'

But before he can say anything else, Draco kisses him again, hard and quick with just his lips, and effectively quiets him. 'Shut up,' Draco adds as he pulls away. 'That—you—' He pauses to pant and tries again with, 'That was—hell—_that—'_

It's almost funny that Draco can't finish a coherent sentence until Harry realises that it's because he's shivering too much. 'We should go,' Harry says quickly, and takes Draco by the sleeve and pulls him along. 'Get—inside. Three Broomsticks. Could use a drink, yeah?'

'Yes,' Draco agrees through shaky teeth. 'Yes. Drinks. Potter,' he says again, and stumbles slightly because Harry is pulling too hard and fast for him to keep up when his body is shuddering like this. 'Potter, wait, that—'

Harry stops and Draco nearly runs into him, and Harry kisses him quickly and softly on the chin, on the corner of his mouth and then on his lips while he laces his fingers with Draco's; his hands are perhaps the only part of him besides his hips that are still warm. 'Shh,' Harry says against his lips. 'I know. _That_. That was—brilliant,' he manages to say. 'But if you go into shock or get hypothermia and die then there will be no more thats and that is a horrible, horrible thought so—' he pauses to kiss Draco again, something which he seems unable to stop himself from doing these days, '—drinks, now, and that—_that,_ later.'

'Yes,' Draco agrees again. 'Yes. Very cold. Drinks. Where are we?' he asks suddenly and looks around. They are not too far from central Hogsmeade, and Harry still has him by the hand and Draco feels slightly light-headed as Harry drags him along. He is tingling everywhere; half of it is probably blood recirculating through the parts of him that are frozen but the other half is every surface that Harry has touched, kissed, licked and pressed against. His teeth are chattering and his body is giving little spasms and he feels like he's going to fall over himself with every step but Harry pulls him along smoothly, surprisingly strong.

They stumble into the Three Broomsticks together. Harry still has Draco's hand, but both are too giddy and cold and flustered to notice that some people are giving them odd looks. Draco isn't thinking about who he is here with, he isn't thinking about the fact that Harry Potter gathers much more attention than other boys usually do, and that their holding hands is probably being photographed and will end up in tomorrow's edition of the _Daily Prophet_. He is too happy and practically glowing to give a damn about anything other than the fact that Harry just gave his hand a squeeze, and his mind is drifting back to how Harry felt on top of him, and Harry's mouth on his throat, fingers sneaking beneath his waistband and—

Harry stiffens beside him, and because Harry is the only thing on Draco's radar at the moment, Draco does notice this and follows Harry's line of sight to the bar, and his stomach deflates and drops between his legs like a lead weight.

Lucius Malfoy is at the bar, leaning against the bench and speaking fast and quietly to Madam Rosmerta, who is looking rather irate. Lucius stops mid-flow when he sees who has just come bursting through the door, and his grey eyes narrow. Draco's brain and body feel like they've been Stunned and he's standing in the entryway like a deer trapped in headlights, and drops Harry's hand automatically.

Lucius steps away from the bar and approaches his son, who wishes his legs would move so he could make a run for it, but his feet are so firmly glued to the floor that he thinks that Lucius has cast some sort of spell on him; thinking about it further, Draco realises how very probable that possibility actually is.

Harry is still beside Draco and their shoulders are nearly touching. But Draco isn't paying attention to Harry anymore; all he notices is how his father stops three feet before him and fixes him with the same look he gives Harry, the look he reserves for Weasleys and Mudbloods and blood traitors. It's the look you give someone you would kill if you thought you could get away with it, and Draco suddenly considers how many murders his father probably _has _gotten away with to date.

Finally, Lucius opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Harry steps in front of Draco. Lucius stops himself and directs the look from Draco to Harry, and his hand tightens on the walking-stick that contains his wand. Harry is an unwavering barrier, however, and meets his gaze with steady eyes and shoulders.

'Can we help you?' Harry asks shortly.

Lucius' upper lip curls slightly. It is a challenge in disguise, and Lucius knows this, but they are in a crowded bar and, as good as Lucius is at avoiding prison, it would not be in his best interests to act with so many witnesses nearby. Instead, he looks at Harry as if he'd like to spit on him, and sweeps past them without so much as a word.

Draco remembers with some urgency that he needs to breathe, and does so, and nearly chokes when he attempts to inhale and exhale at the same time. Harry turns to face him, looking angry and worried and rather pale. The snow in his hair has melted and his bangs are wet and sticking to his forehead, hiding his scar.

'Come on,' Harry says. He touches Draco's shoulder lightly and leads him away from the entryway, and Draco follows in a daze, weaving through chattering friends and couples and groups of drunkards to a small, empty table towards the back of the room. Draco collapses into his seat and drops his head into his arms as he folds them on the table. Harry sits quietly beside him, not saying anything, but Draco feels a hand on his knee and it gives a slight squeeze.

Madam Rosmerta comes bustling up to them from the other side of the bar and asks what they'll be having. They're both of age now and Harry wisely decides that Draco could probably do with something stronger than Butterbeer, and orders them two Firewhiskys. They wait for the drinks in silence while Draco melts and slowly relaxes, with help from Harry's hand on his knee; Harry splays his fingers along Draco's thigh and gives it a firm squeeze periodically.

When the drinks arrive, Harry cups his glass in his hand but doesn't drink because he's watching Draco, who is staring at the smoking liquid as if it's the most wonderful thing that was ever invented. Harry squeezes his thigh once more before taking Draco's hand up on the table, and then gives that a squeeze, too. The lady at the table across from them is looking at them with clear disgust and Draco laughs rather nervously.

It's stupid, Draco thinks. All of this is extremely stupid and awkward and his father is going to kill him and he's in a bar with Harry Potter having drinks and he's _holding his hand_ and he really, really doesn't give a fucking damn anymore.

With this rather rebellious and independent thought, Draco takes his Firewhisky and downs it in one. There is a burning in his throat with a wrath that could challenge a Hungarian Horntail, but it feels better going down, and, what the hell, he squeezes Harry's hand in return.

Draco's had Firewhisky before. It's strong stuff, sure, but once you've swallowed and waited a couple of seconds, the burning dies down and the buzz kicks in. What the burning does_not_ do is get worse, and Draco coughs slightly as his oesophagus screams in silent agony, and it feels like the saliva in his throat has turned to acid, and begun burning trails along his insides.

Draco's only vaguely aware of trying to stand, hand at his throat, and swaying—Harry's also standing up, and yelling something, and people around them are moving, and shouting—but the searing pain travels up to his ears, blocking out the sound from Draco's mind—he coughs again, and it feels as if his lungs have been torn from his windpipe, and with a hazy sort of alarm, he realises he can taste blood in his mouth... and then the pain reaches his eyes, scorching them from behind, and everything goes black.

: : :

Blaise is going to kill Harry Potter.

No—kill is too mild a term.

Blaise is going to _destroy _Harry Potter.

Yes, that's much more suitable, he decides. Because a Killing Curse would be far too kind. No, what Blaise is going to do, is carve that ugly scar right out of his forehead, impale him on the wrong end of a broomstick, set that untidy mop upon his head on fire, and feed his sorry arse to the giant squid.

Feet first.

Blaise nearly takes the door to the Hospital Wing off its hinges as he storms into the ward. Madam Pomfrey says, 'My goodness!' and Blaise is vaguely aware of Hermione and Weasley beside her, standing outside the bed in the far corner that has its drapes closed, but his sights are focused on the lump of black hair that he _knows _is behind that curtain. That unkempt little pillock is his target, and damned if anything is going to stop him.

Hermione has talked to Blaise enough that she's more than aware of how protective he tends to get. She also knows he's particularly fond of Draco, and it is this, combined with the look of murderous rage on Blaise's face as he thunders towards them, that tells her Something Bad is about to happen if she does not intervene.

Madam Pomfrey is attempting to scold Blaise but he bypasses her easily, and Ron looks as if he senses the danger too and he moves to step forward, but Hermione takes the initiative first and intercepts the Slytherin's path. Blaise attempts to walk right through her, but is once again caught off guard by how very strong small girls can be when they want; she has him by the elbows and plants her feet into the ground, and his chest collides with her head and shoulders as she blockades him.

'Blaise—' she begins.

'Piss off,' comes the quick reply. Blaise doesn't mean it, he really _does _like the girl, even if she's bushy-headed and a Mudblood to boot, but right now he has an agenda and anyone that intervenes isn't worthy of consideration. 'Take your bloody mitts off me, I'm going to rip that four-eyed pillock limb from bloody limb—'

'Don't talk to her like that,' Ron says warningly. 'Harry's not done anything wrong—'

'Not done anything wrong?' Blaise snarls, eyes snapping to Ron. Hermione tightens her grip on his arms. 'You know what, Weasley? I've changed my mind. I'm going to rip _you _limb from bloody limb and then use your appendages to beat your thick-witted mate to death with.'

'Now, really!' Madam Pomfrey exclaims, swooping amongst them with a look of disapproval. 'This is a _medical ward,_ Mr Zabini, so will you kindly refrain from making violent threats! Mr Malfoy has had quite enough excitement for one day and needs his rest—'

Before she can finish, the door slams open again ('Good heavens!' exclaims Madam Pomfrey) , and Pansy comes barrelling into the room with much the same murderous intent as Blaise, dark eyes flashing as she approaches them. _'You!'_ she snarls, thrusting an accusing finger at Blaise; it's as if Ron and Hermione aren't even there as she marches up to him, and Hermione lets go and backs away just as Pansy slaps him hard across the face. He takes the blow with hardly a turn of his head. 'I _told you_—I bloody told you this would—you never—and _you_.'

Her voice hits a low, dangerous-sounding timbre with that last word that would have normally impressed Blaise; right now, he is oblivious to her as he focuses on said 'you'—Harry has just stepped out from behind the curtain, looking weary and resigned. Blaise shrugs off Pomfrey as she attempts to stop him with a hand on his shoulder, walks right up to Harry, and seizes him by the collar.

Harry raises his chin but doesn't struggle. Instead, he meets Blaise's eyes. Blaise wonders if he could complete the incantation of the Killing Curse before someone else in the room Stunned him.

'Well?' Harry says after a moment, deadpan. 'Are you going to hit me, or what?'

'That is _quite _enough,' Pomfrey snaps; she bustles up to them and forcibly separates them—an impressive feat, as both Harry and—especially—Blaise are bigger than her now. 'You lot will clear out right now or mark my words, it'll be _straight _to the Headmaster!'

'Fine,' Blaise says, his voice remarkably calm, and jerks his head at Harry, who gives him a wary look before brushing past him. Blaise follows on his heels, well aware of the other three following, and says in a low voice, 'I don't mind killing you in the corridor.'

Harry bites back a retort and waits until he's outside the Hospital Wing before turning to look at Blaise again, who probably _would _have hit him if Hermione hadn't rushed up behind him to latch onto his elbows again. 'Blaise, _please_, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation—'

'I'd _love _to hear it,' Blaise snarls, eyes still fixed on Harry. 'Tell me, Potter, what is your _reasonable _excuse for dragging Malfoy _outside of school grounds_ when you knew for a _fact _that his father was here today?'

Harry's mouth clamps shut, and Blaise ignores Hermione's 'I'm sure he didn't mean—' as he barrels on. 'Go on, Potter. I'm sure you have a _perfectly fucking reasonable _explanation for taking him out of the only place he's protected from his father. Of course, "perfectly reasonable" in _your _opinion being, "I'm the sorriest, stupidest bloody sod in the whole of England, and thought we'd go for a stroll outside school grounds for a round at a bar, despite the fact that we all _know _what kind of man his father is"!'

'Blaise,' Hermione says again, but this time, Harry cuts her off.

'No, he's right,' Harry says curtly, his voice tight. 'It was a stupid thing to do.'

There's a deathly silence in the corridor, which is broken as Pansy steps forward and brings her nose even with Harry's chin. 'You are very, very lucky that Draco is suddenly very fond of you,' she says in that low, dangerous voice. 'Or so help me Merlin, Azkaban be damned, you'd be a dead man.'

Harry takes the threat with a heavy sigh, too angry at himself to argue with her; nasty and slightly irrational or not, Blaise makes a very good point. Harry hadn't even considered the consequences of taking Draco off school grounds earlier that evening. All he'd been thinking about was cheering Draco up and having a good time. If he had known Lucius would be in Hogsmeade...

But he should have suspected as much. Draco'd been right—his father's not the sort of man to let insolence go unpunished. Harry should have known better.

'Stay the fuck away from him,' Blaise says, finally pulling free from Hermione's grip. He still looks like he wants to pummel Harry, but Pansy replaces Hermione, holding him. 'If I so much as smell you in this corridor—'

'What?' Harry snaps. 'I've got as much right to be here as you!'

'_Bollocks _you do,' Blaise snarls. 'If it hadn't been for _you_, Draco'd be fine. _You _are the reason he's in there.'

'But I—'

Pansy steps up beside Blaise, still holding his arm. 'Haven't you done _enough_, Potter?'

'Stay the fuck away from him,' Blaise repeats, eyes narrowed.

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but small hands close around his arm. 'Harry,' Hermione says, 'let's go. It's late—if Filch sees us out here—'

'I don't give a damn about Filch!' Harry snaps, trying to pull away.

'Harry, _please_,' she says. 'We can talk about this later. Let's just go.'

'If I were you, I'd listen to the Mudblood, Potter,' Pansy says nastily.

Ron, who has been a quiet, lurking figure behind Hermione up until now, moves forward—and then stops, as it's Blaise who reacts first, eyes flashing from Harry to Pansy. 'Watch your fucking mouth, Parkinson.'

Pansy looks like Blaise has slapped her—so, in fact, does Ron. Hermione's eyes soften a little, but her grip on Harry grows tighter. 'Later, Harry,' she says firmly. 'Let things calm down a bit.'

'But—' Harry starts to insist.

'I think it would be best,' says an icy voice from behind Harry, 'that you follow Miss Granger's advice, Potter.'

Harry goes rigid at the sound of Snape's voice, doing a quick about-face to bring him into view. Snape's expression is very grave indeed, and he looks as angry as Blaise does, if not more so. His eyes wander to the others. 'It is after curfew. The four of you will return to your dormitories immediately.'

All four begin to protest, Blaise spectacularly so, but Snape quiets them all with a severe look. 'Return to your dormitories,' he repeats. 'And _no _arguments, Mr Zabini, or Mr Potter's enrolment at this institution will not be the only one in jeopardy tonight.'

This statement seems to have the desired effect; Blaise snarls but otherwise obeys, and the others go quietly, Hermione and Ron shooting Harry sympathetic looks as Snape looms over him.

'I have just spoken with the Headmaster,' Snape continues as the others leave the corridor, dark eyes now fixed on Harry. 'I assume your memory is not so poor that you don't remember the conversation we had prior to your detention?'

'No,' Harry says stiffly; he remembers it rather vividly.

Snape's colourless lips form an unpleasant, greasy smile. 'The Headmaster wishes to have a word with you, Mr Potter. Follow me.'

Harry follows Snape in a disgruntled silence all the way to the Headmaster's office, pausing only once; outside the stone gargoyle as Snape hisses, 'Cinnamon Snaps,' and the statue leaps aside, allowing them up the staircase. Inside the office, Dumbledore is sitting behind his desk, hands folded before him, as if awaiting their presence. Harry steps into the centre of the room as Snape joins Dumbledore by the desk, standing stiffly off to the side.

'Good evening, Harry.'

'Sir,' Harry says, unsure of exactly how severe the situation is. Dumbledore's voice is mild, but Dumbledore's voice is _always _mild, even in the direst of circumstances.

'Professor Snape was kind enough to bring me up to date on everything he knows,' Dumbledore says quietly, fixing Harry with a steady gaze. 'Perhaps you will be able to explain the rest for us.'

Harry stiffens; just what, exactly, has Snape told Dumbledore? Certainly not the truth—the twisted truth, perhaps, engineered to paint Harry as the villain, as Snape is wont to do. 'Sir, I—'

'Please have a seat, first,' Dumbledore offers. Harry sighs heavily and takes the chair across from him, squirming slightly. Dumbledore doesn't make him uncomfortable, but it's hard for anyone to sit still when Snape's glare is cutting into them like a blade. 'Now, Harry, I must ask you to relate to me everything you can remember regarding the situation between Mr Malfoy and yourself.'

'Er,' Harry says, thinking back. When should he start? The letters? When he guessed it was Draco? When he found out for _sure _it was Draco? Or only after they met in person? Or just the ordeal in the pub?

'Er,' he says again, earning an eyeroll from Snape.

'Best to begin at the beginning, Harry,' Dumbledore says wisely, granting him a soft smile.

Harry sucks in a deep breath, and decides to do just that. Starting at the speech McGonagall gave them and the first letter he received, Harry explains—sometimes in vaguer detail than others—the events that have transpired, being careful to leave any hint of less-than-appropriate material out of his story. That they only met after the holidays, and did so without informing their Heads of House because they were both worried about who the other was (Harry also wisely leaves out the tiny detail involving Polyjuice Potion) and how they'd gotten into a row—and how that had precipitated the incident in the Great Hall.

Harry is inwardly relieved that neither Dumbledore nor Snape demands to know how Harry and Draco went from several months of supposedly unromantic letters and a row one evening to snogging in full view of the school the next morning. Instead, they listen quietly as Harry describes him and Draco 'talking about it' the evening before their detention, and, skipping over the liaison in the corridor and the short meeting outside of Potions, how Harry had left Draco alone... and then heard about Lucius Malfoy coming to school and decided to go see him—'to make sure he was all right,' Harry finishes. 'That's it.'

There's a moment's pause and Snape says in an icy voice, 'And then you decided it would be in Mr Malfoy's best interests to be smuggled off school grounds, away from the protection of our watch, and practically delivered to within reach of his father?'

'That's not what I was trying to do!' Harry protests, sitting forward in his chair. 'We were just—I was trying to—he was _upset!'_ he snaps in frustration as Snape rolls his eyes again, uncaring that he is yelling at a professor. 'I was trying to _help!'_

'Harry,' Dumbledore says, quietly but firmly. 'Do take care and try and remember your manners in my office; Professor Snape has made a legitimate complaint—that you knowingly disobeyed a direct instruction not to pursue Mr Malfoy—'

'Only because he doesn't like the idea of us being together!' Harry snaps before he can stop the words from tumbling out. Then, as an afterthought, 'Sir.'

'—and be that as it may, I must ask you to consider the idea that Professor Snape also had an ulterior motive for requesting such abstinence,' Dumbledore finishes, ignoring Harry's raised voice.

'Something, I gather from your clearly dumbfounded expression, that has not once crossed your mind,' Snape adds with a self-satisfied sneer. 'Once again, Potter, you are so arrogant that you are convinced that everything is about _you_.'

Harry growls low in his throat but Dumbledore speaks over it. 'What Professor Snape means to say, is that we are both aware of just how dangerous a man Lucius Malfoy is. I would have expected you to understand this as well, Harry, and I must say, your actions were a bit disappointing to say the least.' Harry looks at the floor, clenching his jaw. 'Young Mr Malfoy very nearly had a fatal accident today.'

Harry feels his insides go cold as Dumbledore allows this piece of information to sink in. Finally, he finds his voice; although, it's very hollow as he asks, 'Is he going to be all right?'

Dumbledore glances very briefly at Severus, who narrows his eyes and sighs in resignation. 'Mr Malfoy's condition, for the moment, is stable. While I cannot promise good news, your Freezing Charm had the desired effect...' Harry looks up, surprised that Snape is acknowledging any action of his as appropriate. 'However, the damage sustained was severe nonetheless. Lucius did not chance using a slow-acting poison on his son, no doubt in an attempt to ensure fatality. I have done what I can. The rest is up to Mr Malfoy. Time will tell.'

Harry's stomach, which has been slowly tying itself in a knot as Snape was speaking, tightens painfully at these final words. _Time will tell._

Draco could still die.

Harry hangs his head, unable to look at either of them anymore. He feels that, right now, expulsion would be extremely justified, even though such a punishment would make him unable to see Draco again for the rest of the school year—assuming he's all right in the end. The silence continues for several long moments before Dumbledore speaks again.

'Although Professor Snape finds that the event warrants your dismissal from this institution,' he says mildly, and Harry hears Snape inhale sharply, 'I believe that your intentions were genuine, however reckless your actions may have been.'

There's a moment's pause and Harry chances a glance up at the Headmaster. 'You will serve detention with Professor Snape every night this week, and, furthermore, every weekend until the end of term. You are also banned from any Hogsmeade visits for the rest of the year.' Harry nods, swallowing thickly. 'Your Quidditch privileges may also be revoked—at, however,' he adds as a greedy smirk creeps its way onto Snape's face, 'the discretion of Professor McGonagall. I for one,' Dumbledore continues, 'hope that the consequences for Mr Malfoy of your brash behaviour will be enough punishment in itself.'

'Yes, sir,' Harry says, too guilt-ridden to even take pleasure at the expression Snape adopts as he hears that the decision of whether or not to revoke Harry's Quidditch privileges is to be left to McGonagall.

'Well,' Dumbledore says, sitting back in his chair, 'I think that about covers everything, Severus. Harry, you will return to your dormitory immediately. _No _detours. Professor Snape will contact you with a time and place for your detentions, which will begin tomorrow evening.'

Harry doesn't really remember nodding and saying, 'Good night, sir,' as he leaves Dumbledore's office and pads, bleakly, back to Gryffindor Tower. It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep himself from running back to the Hospital Wing and collapsing by Draco's bedside, apologising for being the biggest idiot that ever stepped foot inside of Hogwarts.

How could he have been so _stupid?_ It hadn't seemed like such a horrible idea—they'd go into Hogsmeade, they'd take a walk through town, they'd be able to _talk _to one another away from the prying, judgemental eyes of classmates and staff alike...

He's too benumbed by the severity of what's happened to even be properly upset; his eyes sting but he isn't crying, thankfully, as he enters the common room and finds Hermione waiting for him.

'Ron went to bed,' she explains, mingled curiosity and concern written all over her expression. 'Are you all right, Harry?'

Harry looks at her for a few moments. Words failing, he resigns himself to just shaking his head.

The concern in her eyes becomes more pronounced. 'Are you expelled?'

Again, Harry shakes his head no.

Hermione lets out a breath. Harry wishes he could do the same, but his chest feels extremely tight. 'Detention?'

'Yeah,' Harry manages.

Hermione looks at him for a moment, and then envelops him in a tight hug. 'It'll be all right, Harry.'

He stiffens momentarily, unprepared for the hug, before sagging against her. She doesn't let go for several minutes, until he finally says, 'Listen, Hermione, I really think I need to go to bed.'

'Oh, right,' she says, pulling away and flushing. 'Sorry. I just—it'll be okay, Harry. Really. Try to get some sleep.'

As Harry watches her retreat to the girls' dorms, he realises that he specifically said 'bed' and not 'sleep'; Harry doesn't think he'll be able to sleep ever again. At least, not while he knows that while he will wake up, there's a chance that Draco will not.

: : :


	8. Well, In That Case

Chapter Eight**  
**Well, In That Case

: : :

It is snowing again. Thick flakes flutter against the tower window, sticking to the sill in an ever-growing pile against the glass. Every time Harry sighs, his warm breath fogs the frosty glass from the inside. It's been almost a week since the incident in the Three Broomsticks, and he's barely moved from this spot except to go to meals and classes, which he only manages half-heartedly after the careful prodding of Ron and Hermione.

Whatever poison Lucius used was a vile one; from what Harry has gathered, it was so chemically similar to the Firewhisky that there was no way anyone, except perhaps Snape, could have detected its presence in the drink. The fiery acid was designed to literally burn a person up from the inside out—thankfully, Draco choked on the drink before it got close enough to his heart. When Harry saw the smoke issue from his mouth, smelled the familiar, citric scent of acid, he did the only thing he could think of, which was to use a Freezing Charm on Draco, hoping to counteract whatever he'd swallowed.

And then he sent an immediate owl to Snape.

It was perhaps the first and last time Snape would ever acknowledge Harry acting less than idiotically. His Freezing Charm had not only frozen Draco inside and out, but prevented the damage from becoming irreversible. He'd still suffered life-threatening wounds from the poison, however, and even with proper care and a week's bed-rest, Draco's life is still in limbo. Madam Pomfrey and Snape have done all they can, and now it is up to Draco's body to decide whether to pull through or not. After all, having all ones internal organs liquidized is a fairly traumatic ordeal.

Harry leans his forehead against the window, closing his eyes as the cold glass bites into his warm skin, causing his scar to prickle. He wants to go and see Draco, even though as far as Harry knows, he is still in a coma-like stasis. But with Blaise on the warpath and in the Hospital Wing whenever he isn't in classes, Harry has stopped trying to go altogether. He doesn't blame the Slytherin for being so belligerent; after all, Blaise has a fair point.

_If it hadn't been for _you_, Draco'd be fine. _You_ are the reason he's in there._

An annoying little voice in Harry's head keeps trying to point out that Draco told him he wasn't doing this for him—_because_ of him, but not _for_ him—and therefore, it isn't Harry's fault. Harry, on the other hand, is more inclined to agree with Blaise; for him, because of him, it doesn't matter. _Because_ of him still makes it his doing.

He wants to see Draco. He wants to see him so badly it _hurts_.

_Haven't you done enough, Potter?_

But he doesn't want to hurt Draco any more, either. Even if that means hurting himself.

Sighing, Harry pulls his forehead, now achingly numb with cold, off the windowpane. Just as he moves to sit on his bed, the dormitory door opens and Ron enters.

Harry stiffens; it's the first time since the incident that he's been alone with his best mate. There's a guilty pang somewhere in his midsection as he realises he's been rather neglectful of Ron these past few weeks, unfairly keeping him in the dark, and Harry has a suspicion that Hermione is the only reason Ron hasn't throttled him and demanded details about 'this Malfoy business'.

'Hey, Ron,' Harry says warily.

'Hey,' Ron says, looking disgruntled and a little uncomfortable. 'How're you doing?'

Harry blinks at him; he's been neglecting Ron for weeks, and the first thing Ron can think to ask is how he's feeling—guilt stabs at his abdomen again, digging deeper. 'I'm fine,' he says. Ron raises an eyebrow. 'No, really, I am. I'm fine,' he insists. 'How are you?'

Ron laughs softly, coming over to sit beside Harry on the bed, shaking his head. 'You've been alternating between pacing the common room and sitting on that windowsill for a week and you're trying to tell me that you're fine? We've been mates for seven years, Harry. Give me some credit, will you?'

Harry frowns, furrowing his brow, and sighs heavily. He sags sideways against Ron. 'Sorry. You're right. I do give you credit, I'm just an idiot. You should know that,' he points out. 'Seven years and all.'

'Mm,' Ron agrees, taking his weight without moving away. 'But then, I would have said I knew you well enough to swear my life that you would never, _ever_ have anything to do with that git Malfoy, aside from beating his face in, too.' Harry stiffens again. But he's leaning against Ron now, and Ron notices. Before Harry can say anything, Ron continues quickly, 'It's all right. I'm not going to flip my lid or anything.'

Harry relaxes once more, then lets out a bit of a groan. 'I'm sorry. I should have told you.'

'Maybe,' Ron says, shrugging. 'But if you had before Hermione stuck me to the armchair and lectured my brains out over it, I might have wigged out a bit.'

'A bit?' Harry asks, incredulous.

'A very large bit,' Ron admits. 'Anyway, mate—look. What you do on your own time is your thing. I guess I'm more worried he's got an ulterior motive or something. I mean, if he—'

Harry snorts, interrupting him. 'Is this where you're going to threaten to kill him if he breaks my heart?'

'Kill him? Merlin, no,' Ron says, shaking his head. 'I was thinking more along the lines of castration. Slowly. While he's conscious.'

'Oh, _Won-won_,' Harry mocks in his most coquettish tone, 'my hero.'

'Shove off,' Ron manages. 'Bloody queer,' he adds, though not unkindly. In fact, he's grinning rather stupidly. 'I mean—Malfoy, okay, he practically _screams_ ponce, but you—' he shakes his head, '—I have to say I never saw it coming. And I think you've just destroyed the fantasies of half the girls in our year.'

'Have you _seen_ half the girls in our year?' Harry gives a derisive snort. 'I consider that a perk.'

Ron smirks at that. 'Ginny's not taking it so badly,' he says. 'I think Hermione had a word with her, too. Good girl, that Hermione. But Romilda Vane was beside herself.'

Harry shudders, sitting up. 'Ugh, spare me. I'll never eat another bloody Cauldron Cake as long as I live.'

'And, um, the other reason I came up here,' Ron says, biting his lip. 'I sort of—well—after Hermione told me everything she knew, and practically made me swear an Unbreakable Vow not to kill him—I sort of... went to see him.'

Harry gapes at him. 'You went to see _Malfoy?'_

'It wasn't easy,' Ron says, wrinkling his nose. 'Hermione had to lure Zabini away, he's been pretty much living in the Hospital Wing. Even Madam Pomfrey's given up on telling him to get lost. I guess we'd be the same if it was you,' he admits, shrugging. 'But, yeah, I guess I had to prove to myself it was true, and I was worried if I came to see you first, we'd get into a row. I didn't care if I got into a row with Malfoy, 'cause he's a prat anyway.'

Harry stares at him, ignoring the insult, leaning in as he waits for him to continue. _'And?'_

'Well,' Ron says, shrugging. 'He wasn't very happy to see me.'

'I would've guessed as much.'

'And I told him he was lucky I didn't regrind his organs into mush—'

'_Ron_—'

'—and he told me,' Ron continues over him, 'that as touching as my declaration of love was, his heart already belonged to another, and on that note, to make myself useful and give you this.'

Ron hands him an unmarked letter. 'He suspects that Zabini has been incinerating all of the letters he was instructed to deliver, and as much as I hate doing anything for that pillock, I suppose it's also doing something for you, so I don't mind.'

Harry is so happy at seeing something from Draco that he completely forgets to thank Ron, taking the letter, tearing it open and reading it quickly. Draco's sharp, narrow handwriting is both familiar and refreshing:

_Blaise assures me that he hasn't killed you yet, if purely for my sake. That being the case, I'm thinking perhaps someone __else__ has killed you, because there really is no other acceptable excuse for not being here, at my bedside, woebegone and sobbing for my suffering._

_I mean, really, Potter—I only swallowed a shot of pure and unadulterated acid. I only nearly __died__. And if Blaise is to be believed, said trauma is entirely __your__ fault, and you should be nailed to a cross and stoned until you are reduced to a bloody pulp of shame and stupidity. Or at least up here and waiting on me hand and foot to atone for your sins._

_That said, if you're not here by teatime, so help me Merlin, I will crawl over to that tower myself, and the strain alone is certain to be the end of me. In which case, Blaise __will__ kill you. Chop chop, Potter._

_P.S. If you ever make me suffer the company of your Weasel unattended again whilst I am helpless and unarmed, I will sic Zabini on __both__ of you._

Harry looks up and notices Ron's looking politely away. 'It's fine,' he says quickly, grinning slightly. 'I'm not going to hide it from you.'

'Actually, I was more worried there'd be something in there I'd rather not know,' Ron says, smirking. Harry shoves his shoulder, not hard, and Ron leans back easily, tilting his head to the side as he scans the letter quickly. He shakes his head, frowning. 'I have no idea what it is about him that appeals to you. Even in his letters, he's got a nasty mouth.'

'I dunno,' Harry says offhandedly, unable to keep the shit-eating grin off his face, 'his mouth's pretty brilliant, sometimes.'

Ron tries to cough and laugh at once, and ends up choking.

: : :

When Harry arrives at the Hospital Wing, he's already got his wand out. Despite Draco's promises that Blaise will not attempt to murder him on sight, Harry is willing to bet that Blaise will still be spoiling for a fight.

Blaise is not there, however, and this immediately puts Harry on higher guard; is something wrong? Has Draco got worse? Been moved to St Mungo's? His stomach clenches painfully as he makes his way across the room, towards the curtained-off sickbed where he knows Draco should be.

When Harry rounds the curtain, the reason for Blaise's absence becomes clear: Dumbledore, Snape and Narcissa Malfoy are around Draco's bed, his mother sitting down beside it and fussing over her son, smoothing the hair back from his forehead and generally making him squirm. Snape is watching the scene rather fondly—then he spots Harry, and scowls.

Dumbledore smiles at Harry. 'Ah, Harry, I was wondering when you would join us.'

At Harry's name, Draco jerks upright and Narcissa stands, turning to face him. She is a tall, stately figure in deep green robes. Behind her, Draco winks at him.

'Mr Potter,' Narcissa says. She beckons him forward and Harry goes, warily, shooting a glance at Dumbledore, who merely smiles indulgently at him. 'Thank you for coming. I wished to express my deepest thanks to you in person.'

'Er,' says Harry. 'Thanks for what?'

'For saving my son's life,' she says simply, bending to bestow a light kiss on his forehead.

'But I'm—'

'The one who took him into harm's way in the first place?' Narcissa interrupts, and her eyes flicker briefly to Snape, whose scowl intensifies. 'No, Mr Potter, that fault lies entirely with myself. I do not expect a boy your age to understand, but rest assured it was my own fault in allowing my late husband anywhere near my son.'

'Er,' Harry says again. 'Late husband?'

'Oh,' Narcissa says, smiling faintly—she looks rather frightening. 'I regret to say my husband has had a rather terrible accident,' she continues, doing an impressive job of sounding undoubtedly guilty and looking completely innocent, 'involving a Welsh Green and an improperly administered tranquilliser.'

'Is that so?' Snape says dryly. 'How unfortunate.'

Dumbledore doesn't look surprised; if anything, he seems quite amused. 'Could have happened to an yone,' he agrees, looking rather pleased.

'Er,' says Harry a third time, now trying not to grin. 'Why was your husband anywhere near a Welsh Green?'

'Because he is a very, very stupid man. Or was, I suppose I should say.' She looks at Draco fondly; Draco looks both smug and surprisingly unsurprised.

'Karma,' Dumbledore says wisely. 'A force even the wisest have yet to fully understand.'

: : :

Harry is lying on his bed, arms folded under his head, with the curtains on his four-poster drawn closed. It has been a week since he went to see Draco. He stops by the Hospital Wing several times a day, but Narcissa Malfoy has taken up residence there and, although she seems strangely unconcerned by the fact that her son is intimately involved with him, Harry does not feel that snogging Draco while his mother is in attendance would be an acceptable thing to do; the most contact they've had was when Draco, growing frustrated at Harry's nervous hovering, grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers.

He is alone in the seventh-year boys' dormitory; he can hear his Housemates in the common room. Ginny seems to have grudgingly accepted the whole situation, although she still refuses to talk to Harry directly. Ron is managing well, considering, and while he neglects to mention Draco if he can help it, Harry doesn't mind. Hermione, the ever-present figure of support, asks Harry how Draco is doing whenever he returns from the Hospital Wing, and informs him that as soon as Draco makes a full recovery, Blaise will likely consent to be in the same room as Harry without hexing him.

The noise in the common room suddenly quiets. Curious, Harry listens, wondering if he's imagining things. The quiet continues for a full two minutes, and then Harry hears the door open. He considers casting a _Lumos_ to see who it is; it's evening, and the moon and stars provide the only faint source of light in the room. He is saved having to investigate, however, when his bed curtains are drawn back, and a tall figure is backlit against the moonlight.

'Feeling antisocial?'

Harry sits up so quickly it leaves him feeling dizzy. Draco laughs softly and places an open hand on his chest, shoving him back down. He climbs over him, knees on either side of Harry's hips, pinning him to the bed. His hand is still on Harry's chest, holding him down.

'I was going to send you an owl and tell you to meet me in the dungeons, but...' Draco says, and shrugs.

'I didn't know you'd been discharged,' Harry says.

'Oh, yeah,' Draco says, shrugging again. 'Mum wanted me to go home for a few weeks, but I told her I had a prior engagement.'

Draco's hips and buttocks are resting heavily on Harry's groin, and he swallows, trying to will his body to calm down. This is the first private conversation he's had with Draco since his father nearly killed him, and he's had a lot of time to think. He has things he has to say, things Draco needs to understand, before this goes any further than it already has. 'Good,' he says. 'We need to talk.'

Draco cocks his head. 'Are you breaking up with me, Potter?'

'I wasn't aware that we were going out,' Harry returns, dryly.

'Oh, well, in that case,' Draco says, sitting back, running his hand from Harry's chest along his arm to his hand; Harry laces their fingers automatically. 'As much as I am looking forward to this, I'm not really into casual relationships.'

'Will you shut up and listen?' Harry asks and Draco does, but he's still smirking. 'Look. I like you. You know that. And my friends are—mostly—all right with it. They'll get over it. The point is, though, I've got—things. To do. Important things. I mean, I don't think I need to explain that the _Prophet_ isn't exactly far from the mark when they go calling me the _Chosen One_.'

Draco's fingers tighten in his; he's still listening, but no longer smirking. Harry plunges on: 'I can't really tell you what's going on, as much as I might want to. Ron and Hermione know, but they've always known, and I'm not saying I don't trust you—it's just safer, the less people know, safer for me and safer for them. Safer for _you_. But there are going to be times that I need to—go, and do things, and I won't be able to tell you what, or for how long, but I need you to understand that it's important.' He sucks in a deep breath and finishes, 'I need you to trust me.'

Draco listens to him in silence, and regards him quietly for a while before answering. 'I do,' he says finally. 'Trust you. And I figured as much, I mean, you needing to—do things,' he says, sighing heavily, his weight sinking into Harry. 'I would like to help, of course, but we both know I'd be lying if I said I could be useful at all.'

'You're useful to _me_,' Harry insists. 'This—whatever it is, that we're doing? It's been the most helpful thing I've had in seven years. Everything else—I mean, what do I get out of this, in the end? In the meantime? This,' Harry says, taking another deep breath, causing Draco's hips to rise and fall with his chest, 'this has helped more than you can understand.'

'I'm not going anywhere, Potter,' Draco tells him. 'You'll go and do what you have to, and in the end—in the meantime—I'll still be here.'

'_Harry_,' Harry feels obliged to correct; at this level of intimacy, surnames seem a little inappropriate. 'And—well, good,' he says, smiling. 'In that case—and at the risk of sounding like a complete prat—'

'Risk?' Draco interjects, smirking like a bastard. 'You often sound like a complete prat.'

'—I was wondering if you'd, er,' Harry says, fumbling over the words, 'if you'd—'

Draco leans down and kisses him; Harry makes a quiet noise and gives up, shivering when Draco's tongue teases his bottom lip. 'You completely incoherent sod,' Draco says against his mouth, opening his eyes to look at Harry. This close, Harry can see every single amber fleck in his grey eyes. 'Are you asking me out?'

'I was trying to,' Harry admits, grinning, and kisses him back briefly. 'Before I was, you know, rudely interrupted.'

'Mm,' Draco hums, rolling off him. 'I suppose, but if you forget my birthday or our anniversary, the deal's off.' Harry scowls at him, but Draco isn't looking; he pushes the bed curtains aside completely and hops off the bed before turning back to face Harry. 'I've been meaning to ask, by the way,' he drawls, his smirk half-hidden in the darkness. 'Were you up here when you got my letter?'

Harry doesn't need to ask which letter Draco is talking about. _Intellectual pornography, huh? _He blushes at the memory. 'Er. Yeah.'

'Here?' Draco asks innocently, pointing at the wall beside his bed.

'Um,' Harry says. 'Well, no, over—by the window, actually.'

Draco looks behind him, then back at Harry rather appraisingly. 'Over there? Really? Rather daring, I'd say. I suppose there are some tolerable Gryffindor traits.'

Harry rolls his eyes, but Draco is taking him by the hand and pulling him over to that very same wall. He manoeuvres Harry between himself and the stone, a hand on his chest to hold him against the wall, and descends on his mouth.

Harry lets out a sharp hiss into the kiss; the windowsill is pressing painfully into his backside, but Draco is between his legs and that feels incredibly, incredibly good and he does not want it to end. Draco surfaces, lazily, nibbling on his lips and breathing unevenly. Harry hisses again as Draco drags his teeth along the underside of his throat and grinds against him so hard it's bordering on painful; terribly, dizzyingly, heavenly painful.

Draco's right hand is unbuttoning his shirt, his left holding Harry firmly by the hip, and Harry gasps as teeth snap at his collarbone, replacing the mark there that was beginning to fade. Harry decides he's done wondering whether he likes girls or guys better; nothing, absolutely nothing, could feel better than this—Draco's hand inside his shirt, fingers caressing his chest, his ribs, travelling up and down his side, nails leaving red lines in his skin. Nothing is better than Draco's hips thrusting against his, the heat pooling in his groin, so incredibly intense and intoxicating that he just might faint. Draco sucks harshly on the flesh where Harry's neck and shoulder meet, and Harry runs his hands up and down Draco's back, lingering occasionally to grip his hair and give a sharp tug, which makes Draco bite down and send the Snitches in Harry's stomach aflutter over and over again.

Their hips develop a rhythm, learning when to press and for just how long, just how hard, and every time, Harry feels the blood rush to his head and back to his groin again, until he's given himself a monumental headache that would probably hurt like hell under normal circumstances. Sweet fucking Merlin, he can't take this anymore. He's hard and aching and Draco had better get down to it or he's going to kill him.

He seizes Draco harshly by the hair, earning a gasp and a sharp bite in retaliation, and drags his mouth over to Draco's ear, hissing, with increasing urgency, 'Draco. Draco, Draco, _Draco,' _and then tells him what he wants. What he _needs_. 'Right now, or Merlin help me, I will _kill_ _you_ until you give it to me.'

Draco abruptly stops everything he's doing and pulls back, staring at Harry. Not in horror or disgust or even shock, but more of a stupor. His pupils are dilated, eyes bright and wide.

'Come again?' Draco finally manages, voice quiet and hoarse over bruised lips.

Harry licks his lips and lets his eyelids drop further, and leans in close, so his lips are touching Draco's. 'I said,' he repeats slowly, calmly, like he's asking for a spare quill, 'that I want you to fuck me.' He pauses to let it sink in, watching Draco's expression change from stunned to hesitant. Harry raises his eyebrows. 'Problem?'

Draco lets out a short breath against his lips; the hesitation materializes into very carnal desire, and he swallows hard. 'No,' Draco breathes, voice sounding deep in his throat. 'No problem at all.'

: : :

_fin_

* * *

**Please note:** There's about two pages worth of smut that goes here, but I can't post due to ffnet's anti-MA rating policy. So... if you want the smut, feel free to check my author profile. The link listed goes to my livejournal, where you can read this chapter in its full NC17 naughty glory (if you like, the fic doesn't need it to be complete). You can also search for this story on Hex Files as well.

Short, M-rated for-shits-and-giggles-only epilogue incoming shortly. My way of saying thanks for reading!


	9. Epilogue: Royal Flush

Epilogue**  
**Royal Flush

: : :

Blaise is beginning to think that this whole thing is extremely unfair.

He's unaware he's even holding his breath until his lungs scream in panic, shouting obscenities at his hormones for putting his life in unnecessary danger. Blaise likes to think he values his life, but right now his brain is in rapt agreement with his hormones, and is prepared to serve as barrister if his lungs decide to press charges.

Blaise thinks his brain has the trial cinched, because what he is witnessing will serve as one hell of a defence.

Draco's hands have always been elegant; long-fingered, manicured, most likely moisturised daily; even the way they move as they unfasten the red and gold silk from around Harry's collar is sublime; fingertips gentle but firm, never applying too much pressure, never too little, as they take their time in loosening and untangling the knot. It's a movement cultivated to perfection by years of training to become a patrician, and Draco slips the tie from Harry's neck with an unsettling amount of inertia, letting the fabric linger as it slides across the thin white fabric of his shirt.

Harry notices the touch, but his reaction is subtle; his eyelids drop slightly as his eyes flicker down, a small hint of a knowing smile appearing leisurely on his lips as Draco slides the strip of fabric down and away. They are sitting opposite Blaise on Draco's bed, Blaise lying on his stomach facing them, Harry with his legs crossed, and Draco perched sideways on the bed just behind him, one leg tucked underneath him and the other hanging carelessly off the edge. Draco rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, tossing the tie between them to join the ever-growing pot beside the deck and looking up to meet Blaise's eyes.

'Your turn to deal,' Draco says.

Blaise gathers the cards, shuffles, cuts and deals. Five-card draw, as usual, something that Harry is having trouble wrapping his poorly-socialised Gryffindor mind around, never having played poker before. Blaise still cannot believe that Harry Potter, epitome of all things Gryffindor, has agreed not only to play _strip_ _poker_, but to do so with an audience. It's almost as hard to believe as the fact that Draco Malfoy, disciple of the self-serving Slytherin agenda, is willing to share a peek of what he gets his hands on every night.

Harry picks up his cards, and Draco's eyes leave Blaise's to peer at his hand. He smirks. Blaise shuffles through his own cards, and resists the urge to do so himself. Diamond flush. Not too shabby, considering he hasn't modified his hand. Coins are tossed onto the pile; all Galleons, of course, for even in the face of destitution due to being cut out of his father's will, Draco absolutely refuses to gamble like a derelict. Good thing Harry has the entire Black family fortune to his name, Blaise thinks, because these games tend to get expensive. Blaise doesn't care; if he bankrupts his mother, she'll just marry another unfortunate (but wealthy) schmuck and shortly thereafter end up a dowager again.

Blaise raises Harry's two Galleons to four. Draco raises his eyebrows, and whispers something into Harry's ear. Harry's eyes, half closed behind his glasses, glance sideways at him, and Draco smirks again and nods. Harry shrugs, and calls the raise. Draco's uncharacteristically good at calling bluffs in this game, and Blaise knows this, but his hand isn't bad. So he leaves the bet as it is and drops his hand on the duvet.

Harry follows suit. Blaise frowns; full house. Bastards.

Blaise sighs and sits up, dutifully unbuttoning the first few holes of his shirt, and then pulls it over his head. He tosses it in the pile, and sits on his knees. Harry's eyes are open now, curious and unabashed as they rake over the naked torso before them. Blaise is rather proud of his figure, his looks in general even, for like Draco he's a progeny of pure-blooded good breeding, shaped by teenage hyperactivity, Quidditch, and exotic background to boot.

Draco has seen it all before, and is instead watching Harry, silver eyes glittering as Harry's head tilts to the side. He's so close that the tip of his nose is nuzzling under Harry's ear, lips partially open and caressing the soft skin of his neck idly. Blaise hands the deck across to Harry, who is getting better at cutting with every match, while Draco's hand comes to rest on his hip. His fingers splay there as if that is their sole purpose, to connect the two of them with just enough pressure to remind Harry what is on Draco's mind, what's on his mind every minute of every day that they're together. Harry deals, tossing the pile back between them, and the hand not holding his cards comes to rest over Draco's.

Their fingers entwine too naturally, Blaise thinks, for a pair that spent six and a half years loathing one other's existence.

Blaise looks at his cards and feels a smirk coming on, but restrains it. It's a straight flush, aside from that stray spade among the hearts. Well, that's easily remedied—Blaise allows the smirk to appear as he tosses five Galleons in the pot, watching Harry look up from his hand and raise his eyebrows. Draco's reaction is more subtle; his brow contracts a bit, the hand in Harry's tightens slightly, and he murmurs something unintelligible against Harry's earlobe.

Harry shivers, and raises Blaise five more. Blaise meets it, unperturbed, and Draco's smirk falters a little. This does not go unnoticed by Blaise, who tosses in another Galleon. Draco winces a little when Harry calls it and lays down their hand. Blaise looks at their cards; quad tens, Queen kicker. Not bad, but not good enough. He drops his straight flush between his knees.

'Bastard,' he hears Draco murmur against Harry's neck. But he's smiling, and so is Harry. He untangles their fingers and moves both his hands up Harry's sides, slowly, smoothing the fabric over his body, coming to rest with his elbows under Harry's armpits and hands resting along his collarbone. Blaise picks up the deck and begins to shuffle. It's a distraction, mostly, to keep his eyes from falling out of his head as he watches Draco begin to unbutton Harry's shirt, starting at the collar and working his way down. Harry rests his hands on his knees as Draco works, fingers brushing the skin beneath the crisp, white fabric too frequently to be unintentional, while Draco buries his nose in the hair at the back of Harry's neck.

Harry's eyes flutter closed as Draco undoes the last button and his hands slide inside the loose fabric, ghosting Harry's abdomen and chest as they travel to his shoulders and carefully push the shirt off his torso and down his arms. Draco's fingers are caressing the muscles in his upper arms—Harry twitches slightly, and Blaise sees the lines when they tighten. Blaise can hear Draco breathing down the back of Harry's neck as he tugs the shirt past his elbows, his thumbs lingering on the underside of Harry's wrists as he pulls the article of clothing away completely, and tosses it in the pot.

At some point, Blaise reckons he must have bitten his tongue, because now it's throbbing somewhat painfully. He has to admit that, Quidditch and hyperactivity aside, Harry's breeding isn't too shabby, either.

While Blaise's eyes have been on Harry's exposed chest, Draco's chin has come back to rest on his shoulder. 'You planning to deal some time tonight?' he asks. He also smirks, all too knowingly. Fucking show off.

Ugh. Three of a kind? What kind of cunt deal was this? Blaise blinks as he realises that Draco isn't just smirking because he's showing off, but because it's giving him the upper hand—specifically, the advantage of charming the cards while Blaise is busy ogling his boytoy. Fucking _bastard_ of a show off.

Harry throws in four Galleons, and Blaise, already acknowledging defeat, folds. Draco's eyes flicker briefly between his neck and his waist, curious, and Blaise decides this cheating snark of a pillock isn't getting a peek that easily tonight, and undoes the chain around his neck. Blaise can't figure out who looks more disappointed, Draco or his bloody Gryffindor tart.

Draco shifts closer to Harry, bringing his chest against Harry's back, one leg still dangling off the side of the bed. He brings one of his hands to rest on Harry's knee, using the other to brace himself against the mattress by Harry's hips. His chin takes up its favourite spot on that span of lean muscle between Harry's neck and shoulder, tilting to the side to rest against Harry's cheek. It's a possessive pose, an unnecessary, tantalising proclamation that this is his and his alone, a voyeuristic tease that says, you may look all you like, but touch and I'll break your fucking arms off, thanks very much.

It's Harry's turn to deal again, and he does so easily now, the simple shuffle-and-cut quick and fluid, formed from habit. They were both fully dressed in cloaks and school robes when this started. Everything's in the pile now except trousers and briefs, assuming that green-eyed little prat is wearing any. A few weeks ago, Blaise never would have thought even the boldest of Gryffindors would have the bollocks to go commando, but Draco has been having a disturbing influence on some of Harry's more orthodox ways, so Blaise rarely puts anything past the pair of them anymore.

The one advantage Blaise has is that Harry is still a Gryffindor at heart, and deals fair. Blaise has a flush, not straight but with an ace and a king—a fairly high one, and flushes are hard to predict and harder to beat. Draco's eyes study Harry's cards, and he shrugs; Harry drops two Galleons in the pot. Blaise is looking for a bluff to call, but they're giving him nothing. He decides to call, not raise, and Harry drops his cards at the same time Blaise does.

It's also a flush, ace-king high as well. But it's of spades. Blaise's hearts earn him the win, and he smirks.

'Bastard,' Draco mutters again.

Blaise folds his arms behind his head and rests against one of the bedposts. 'I hope your paramour wore his skivvies tonight.'

'Do you?' Draco asks, smirking back.

His arched eyebrow says he knows Blaise is bluffing, and Harry gives a sort of non-committal snort. He never talks much around Blaise, or any of the other Slytherins, for that matter. He's here for Draco's benefit, and his alone, more than likely because his fellow Gryffindors begin whinging if Draco is in their territory for too long, as he takes liberties in their presence that would drive Theodore through the roof, and Harry is too smitten with the bastard to tell him off for it. The only thing that Harry seems to stand up to Draco about nowadays is the treatment of his friends; the word 'mudblood' has all but vanished from Draco's vocabulary, though every once in a while, when Harry's elsewhere, it slips out. But Harry is very seldom elsewhere when Draco has his way, so Blaise knows that soon it will be nothing but a not-so-fond memory.

Draco stands, taking Harry's hands and pulling him up. Blaise reclines against the wooden post as Draco positions himself behind Harry, breathing down his neck, hands resting on his hips and then sliding along the waistband of his trousers, thumbs hooking inside the lip, fingers slowly and deftly undoing the clasp. Grey eyes glitter with mischief as he slides the zip down, looking at Blaise, not Harry. He hardly blinks as he pushes them off Harry's hips, a sexy, foxy little smile on his lips.

What a tosser, Blaise thinks. He's giving me a bloody _show_.

Harry, it turns out, did wear his skivvies—or in this case, boxers—which are, surprisingly enough, a dark emerald that matches his eyes. Draco is dragging his teeth across Harry's shoulder; Harry hisses, the muscles in his torso tighten, and as his trousers fall to the floor, Draco's hands slide back up the sides of his thighs, palms lingering on his backside, fingers giving the slightest hint of a squeeze.

_And I'm fucking loving it._

Guiding Harry back to the bed, using a combination of hands and nose to nudge him down onto the mattress, Draco buries his nose back in the dark, untidy hair and lounges behind him. Harry's eyes flash at Blaise from behind his frames, and he smirks. It's an odd look on him. 'Your deal, Zabini.'

Blaise snaps out of his stupor, sitting up and snatching the deck. He deals quickly, because the faster you deal, the easier it is to rig your hand, and damned if he's losing this game now. He can't give Harry a completely shoddy hand, or Draco will know what he's up to... in fact, the better the deal, the less likely that they'll notice...

Harry looks his cards over, turns his head and says something quiet to Draco which prompts a low laugh into his hair. 'Don't worry about it,' Blaise hears Draco whisper.

Harry looks back at Blaise and, after a moment's hesitation, tosses six Galleons in the pile. Blaise raises him four more.

Frowning, Harry starts to turn his head, but Draco's a step ahead. 'All in,' he breathes. He drags his fingertips along Harry's exposed ribs, drawing a sharp gasp; Harry flushes slightly, unprepared for the touch, and Blaise feels his own neck grow hot.

'This isn't easy with you distracting me,' Harry murmurs.

Draco's eyes flicker from Harry to Blaise, who quickly shuts his mouth. 'Who says I'm doing it to distract _you?'_ he says silkily.

Harry adds his four remaining Galleons. 'That's all for me,' he says to Blaise. 'You're not raping my Gringotts vault for a card game.'

That's fine, Blaise thinks, because he only needs one more round.

Harry drops his cards. Straight flush of diamonds, King-high. Near impossible to beat. Blaise smirks and lays his cards down.

'You cheating little shit,' Draco says, laughing. 'Royal flush, my _arse_.'

'Don't know what you're on about,' Blaise tells him, shrugging. 'Anyway, it's not like _you_ have to strip.' His eyes flicker to Harry. 'Hop to it, Potter.'

Draco is glaring at Blaise over Harry's shoulder. Harry shrugs, and stands up, and Draco goes with him, pulling Harry's hands away from his waist. 'I'm doing this,' he says firmly, meeting Harry's eyes. Harry looks at him and nods, letting his hands fall away. Draco steps up beside him, resting the length of his body against Harry's side, and his nose tucks under the crook where Harry's jaw meets his ear. It's almost as if they are made to connect there, a perfect fit. One hand is out of sight, resting on the small of Harry's back; the other ghosts down his chest, fingertips caressing the flesh on their way down, down... Draco's hand stops where their hips meet, and he traces two fingers along the definitive line of Harry's hip, before they gracefully slip under the elastic band.

Blaise holds his breath.

And then Draco takes off Harry's glasses with his other hand and tosses them into the pot.

Blaise is going to kill him.

'And you call me a cheating little shit,' he says. 'You do realise I get to keep the pot?'

'You can have 'em,' Draco says lightly, as he kisses Harry's shoulder and removes his fingers. 'He isn't going to need them.'

Bastard!

~ _fin _~


End file.
